


All You Never Say

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Casual Sex, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Jealousy, Jon Snow and the Starks Are Not Related, Mentions of past abuse, Secret Relationship, Sexual Tension, very minor Jon/Daenerys, very minor Sansa/Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22617286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: It's just a way to scratch an itch... until it's not.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 166
Kudos: 717





	1. Chapter 1

"Fuck!"

She spits the curse through gritted teeth, throwing her head back as she bounces up and down in his lap. The ends of her loose auburn hair brush his fingers and his hands grip her hips tighter.

Jon smirks, his eyes flickering from her own – blown wide and dark – to her glistening cunt, taking him in so well, and back again.

He loves it when she's like this, so wild and free. It does something to him, coaxing the filthiest expletives from that prim and proper mouth. She's normally so composed, cool in a way that borders on icy; uptight, polite, _perfect_ Sansa Stark. It gets him ridiculously hot, the memory of how she screams when she comes, such a good girl until she's on her knees for him.

Auburn hair a mess, tangled and free from its tight ponytail, electric blue eyes blown to black, ruby lips swollen and bitten… this is a side of her only he gets to see, and he _loves it._

They call it no strings attached, simply a way to scratch an itch, but something always brings them back to each other.

It's an easy thing, a natural thing, the way they come together. It has been since that first time all those years ago, back when they were seventeen, curious teens who didn't trust anyone else. It only stops – whatever _it_ is, this strange, fragile thing between them – when they're dating other people. Even then, the tension thrums under their skin, a connection that still burns white hot, and other people never last long.

At the crux of it all, they're best friends. Family. If this part were to end, Jon's hopeful he could walk away from it, relatively unscathed, and they'd still be _them._

He was there when she experienced her first heartbreak, a shoulder to cry on. He was the one to notice the bruises on her body, the one to hold her as she broke down and admitted it was Joffrey Baratheon. He was by Robb's side when they confronted the little shit, just as fierce a protector as her brother. She was there when his buddy from the force died in a drive by shooting, holding his hand while his jaw flexed and Edd was lowered into the ground.

An honorary Stark, he's been a part of her life since his mother died and Ned Stark, Lyanna's best friend, brought him home to live with them.

Friends and girlfriends and boyfriends come and go, but _they_ remain. Each other's constants.

"Touch me," she gasps out, grinding her hips in a circle, her hands anchoring themselves on his chest.

Jon's mouth twitches again, his fingers flexing on her hips as he guides her up and down his cock.

"I am touching you."

Her eyes fly to his, narrowing in frustration. She clenches around him and he bites out a groan, feeling her too tight and too wet and too _good._

"You know what I mean, you bastard," she hisses, biting down hard on her bottom lip.

He cocks a brow, his right hand leaving her hip to trail up the side of her body. He briefly cups a breast, giving her nipple a pinch before his thumb pulls her lip from her teeth's grasp and he rubs it softly.

"Where, baby?" he murmurs huskily, "use your words."

She rolls her eyes.

"My cunt," she bites out and he almost comes there and then, "my clit."

His lips twitch under his beard before he pops his thumb in his mouth. He watches her eyes darken even further as his hand travels to its destination.

"Always so wet for me, aren't you?" he murmurs when his thumb swipes against her clit and he finds he didn't need the extra lubrication. She chokes on a moan, her eyes rolling back as he plays with her clit, using just the amount of pressure he knows she likes.

"Yes," she gasps, spreading her legs wider and spearing herself on his cock.

"That's it," he grits out, working her clit harder, feeling that liquid heat begin to coil in the pit of his stomach, "ride me, baby. Fuck yourself on my cock."

Her already flushed cheeks burst into heat, her body involuntarily reacting to his words. She's normally so put together, so practiced and composed. She's the kind of girl who carries a finely detailed planner with her everywhere she goes. The kind of girl who rolls her eyes and kicks his feet out the way when he's watching TV, picking up his clothes around him and furiously tossing them into a hamper because she can't stand mess. The kind of girl who dreamed of being a doctor since Bran fell from the old oak tree in their garden and she kissed his knee, placing a bandaid over the wound.

 _So very good_ , yet here she is, trembling under every very bad word he utters.

_"Did you like that, Sansa?" he'd whispered delightedly the first time her cheeks had flushed at his words, "you dirty girl."_

"Jon… I'm gonna come," she practically sobs, riding him harder, her perfectly manicured nails carving moon-shaped crescents into his skin.

His thumb rubs at her nub faster, the fingers of his other hand tugging at her nipple.

"Come for me, baby," he urges, staving off his own orgasm until he feels her flutter around him, "that's it… such a good girl."

She comes with a desperate cry, her body shaking on top of his, a thin layer of perspiration covering her body. He always finds her attractive, but she's _stunning_ like this. Beautiful and perfect and, for a moment, all his. It's a thought he never lets himself linger on, shoving it to the back of his mind, and he spills inside her with a grunt of his own.

"Jesus Christ," she gasps out as she collapses to the bed next to him, flinging an arm over her forehead.

"Not quite," Jon quips with a smirk, his own breath fighting to return to normal.

Sansa snorts, rolling her eyes and playfully swatting at his chest.

She rests for only a minute or so before she sits up, giving his thigh two pats. Her fingers are dangerously close to his softening cock and it twitches with interest.

"Again?" she quirks a brow as she glances at him over her shoulder, eyes wide, partly surprised, partly impressed.

He gives a husky chuckle, arching a brow of his own and shrugging as he crosses his arms above his head and leans back.

"You're insatiable."

"Says the girl who came to _me_ ," he drawls, "all frustrated because this one was as shit as the last."

Sansa rolls her eyes and turns away from him, but he knows he's right. She has the _worst_ taste in men (present company excluded) and _obviously_ Robin Arryn turned out as useless as the rest of them.

Jon could've told her that.

Not that she would have appreciated it when she turned up on his doorstep earlier that evening, a pout on her lips and a bottle of wine in her hands.

She certainly didn't appreciate how he'd howled with laughter when she told him Robin said 'thank you' every time he came.

She _had_ appreciated how quickly he'd made _her_ come, his strong hands laying her down on the couch and spreading her thighs, his wet tongue lapping at her cunt like he belonged there.

Robin hadn't lasted long, just a few months before she tired of him and swiftly moved on. Jon _almost_ feels sorry for the boy, but he's _missed_ her, truth be told. He always does when they're apart, when they're dating other people, his body aching for her like a drug addict needing his next fix. It's not fair, not on each other and not on the people they're dating, but it's the way it's always been.

They dance around each other, neither one wanting to break, wanting to bend. They never get too close, hiding behind humour and euphemism, behind sex.

They're using each other, Jon's well-aware, but this has become as natural as breathing to him and he can't bring himself to stop.

"Just admit it, Sansa Stark," his hand reaches for her, fingers dancing an electric path down her spine, and he watches her shiver, "I've ruined you for all other men."

She laughs, a soft, musical sound, before she twists around, her gaze flickering from his mouth to his eyes and back again.

"You wish, Jon Snow," she leans in, giving him a soft peck on the mouth, before she stands up and begins to gather her clothes.

He kisses her back, fighting the urge to swipe his tongue in her mouth, to drag her back to bed and show her just what she's missing when they're apart.

The atmosphere stretches out between them, silent but comfortable in a way it always is, as she gets dressed, throwing her jumper over her head. Her brows furrow as she searches for something, rolling her eyes with a scoff when her gaze finds her lacy panties hanging from his finger.

"Caveman," she accuses as she snatches them, well-aware of his habit of shoving them into his back pocket after a quick fuck against the wall before dinner, with her parents waiting on the other side, or in a public bathroom before a movie with their friends or golf with Robb.

"Thanks," she says nevertheless when they're on and her jeans are pulled up her long legs, "I needed that."

He runs his fingers through his messy curls and gives a lopsided smile.

"Anytime, Sans."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some phone sex, a slight daddy kink and the introduction of Sam and Robb. Enjoy!

Jon curses under his breath as he trips over a shoe in the hallway, trying to get to his phone. It rings in two more warning shrills and Jon just about gets to it, grabbing it from his bed and making a mental note to tidy up later.

"Hello?" he's breathless as he answers it before checking who it is, wedging it in the space between his ear and shoulder as he starts to fold the clothes strewn on his bed.

Robb Stark's low voice greets him from the other side.

"Why are you so out of breath?" it's not much of a greeting, Jon notes, and before he can explain, Robb's speaking again, "ooh, do you have a girl there?"

Jon fights back a wince, well aware that the only woman he's had in his bed for months is Robb’s little sister. He’s protective, fiercely so, and even the _thought_ of him finding out has Jon instinctively covering his privates.

Over the years, Jon's thought about telling him. He thought about it the night he took her virginity, sneaking past his bedroom still smelling like his sister's perfume. He thought about it that time they were working on Ned's car in the garage, chatting about nothing and everything all at once.

He thought about it the night he watched him cry over what Joffrey did to her. It's the only time he's ever seen him cry and he ached to tell him.

He wanted him to know that he'd _never_ hurt her like that.

The fear of hurting her, of hurting each other, is one of the main reasons they're not together in the first place - at least not in the traditional sense of the word.

But over the years, there was always a reason not to. He was in a bad mood, Robb was away studying, he started dating Val or she started dating Waymar and the whole thing stopped. There was always an excuse, he always missed his moment, and how could he explain when he didn't understand it himself?

"Nope, no girl," he says quickly, "what's up?"

He's thankful Robb doesn't push the subject.

"What are you doing Friday night?"

Jon frowns, trying to think as he tosses the t-shirt he's folding aside. He can practically _see_ Sansa’s eyes rolling as he already gives up on his task and sits on the edge of bed.

"Nothing, why?"

"Wrong. You're coming to dinner at Mom and Dad's. Marg and I have an announcement to make and I want you to be there."

Curiosity piqued, Jon arches a brow.

"Is she pregnant?" he starts, before his mouth spills out his rapid-fire thoughts, "can I be godfather? Are you getting married? Can I be best man? I'll be good, I _swear_ , and you know Theon will just lose the rings—" he stops himself short of saying what he _wants_ to say, of accusing Theon of sleeping with the maid of honour, because _let's face it_ , that’ll probably be Sansa and Jon's many things but he's not a hypocrite.

"Whoa, chill..." Robb chuckles through the phone, "all will be revealed. Just make sure you’re there.”

“What about your Mum?” Catelyn’s Stark’s face, all solemn and disapproving, a unique expression she wears only for him, sears behind Jon’s eyes, “she hates me.”

Robb sighs, a low vibration he feels through the phone.

“She does not hate you…” he starts, but he sounds as convinced as Jon feels, “…look, don’t worry about Mum. Everyone will be there to keep you safe.”

He can sense Robb’s smirk and he feels himself smiling too.

“Everyone?” he asks lightly.

“Sure. Arya’s coming home from Uni tomorrow anyway, Theon said he’d try to fit me into his busy schedule,” he practically hears Robb’s eye-roll at that, “Sansa caused a fuss, _obviously._ She said I was insensitive for forgetting she was doing her tax returns that night. I just told her to shut up and she had to come because she’s boring and because I need her there.”

Jon’s chest vibrates with a husky chuckle and he shakes his head at her ridiculousness.

He can imagine how that conversation went, Robb calling her a fun sponge, her calling him reckless and irresponsible. She would have given him a lecture on the importance of record keeping and staying organised and Robb would have tuned her out the way Jon does, but as soon as she’d glommed onto the fact that it was important to him, she would have changed entirely.

That was the thing with Sansa; people didn’t understand her.

They don’t bother to see past her icy exterior to the fire underneath, and he’s never met a person more fiercely devoted to their family. He remembers how gently she held Rickon when he was born, how she sang to him, the only voice that could calm him. He remembers how she drove around for three hours trying to find the house party Arya was too drunk at. He remembers how she locked herself in the toilet and cried when she overheard the girls at school call her a cold bitch.

He understands Sansa. He _knows_ Sansa, in and out, in a way no-one else does. Not even the Starks.

Robb’s chattering voice brings him back to reality.

“Yeah, yeah,” he nods along to something he didn’t hear, “I’ll be there.”

To say Jon's tired would be an understatement.

It always happens this way, after one of them breaks up with a partner. They gravitate towards each other, something easy and familiar, and they fuck like they have something to prove.

It's been a month since Robin Arryn left the scene and Jon's _exhausted_.

He feels his eyes drooping as he tries to finish his paperwork, his pen falling from his fingers.

The noise from his phone as it vibrates on the kitchen table makes him jump.

Sansa's name flashes on the screen.

_Wanna come over?_

His mouth twitches under his beard, his hand coming up to stroke his chin.

 _Can't_ , he types back, _got some stuff to finish up for work._

His phone buzzes with a response before he can put it down.

_I'll make it worth your while._

He feels himself smirk, his curiosity piqued. She has him wrapped around her finger and deep down, he knows he's lost this game before it's even begun.

_Oh yeah?_

_Yeah. You can even bring your cuffs._

He bites his bottom lip, shifting in his seat slightly as the image of Sansa handcuffed to her bedpost, naked and spread out before him, sears behind his vision. His traitorous cock twitches in interest and he almost rolls his eyes at the predictability of it all.

He writes back.

 _That's very bad, Sansa Stark_.

_It is. Are you going to punish me?_

His stomach clenches, desire coiling hot inside him.

His thumbs are typing his surrender before he even realises it.

_That depends._

_On?_

_On just how bad you've been._

He watches the three little dots with an intensity that borders on desperate.

 _Well, I've already made myself come tonight_ , she starts and he bites back a groan, _I fucked myself with my fingers and imagined it was your cock._

He does groan at that, adjusting himself and pressing the palm of his hand into his crotch. He's hard already, straining through the fabric of the uniform he hasn't taken off yet, and he slowly pulls the zipper down.

With one hand, he types a simple response.

_Tell me more, baby._

_I thought of that thing you do with your mouth_ , the corner of his mouth twitches at this, knowing how much she loves his face between her thighs, _it made me so wet, Jon. I love it when you fuck me with your tongue._

 _I love it too_ , he writes back, _love the taste of your pussy, love feeling you cum on my face._

He's too far gone to stop now, paperwork long forgotten. He reaches into his trousers and pulls his hard cock out, giving it a couple of lazy strokes.

 _You're touching yourself, aren't you?_ she reads him like a book, _if you came over, you wouldn't need to. Or if I came over, I'd get on my knees for you. I bet you're in your kitchen, aren't you?_

He grunts a response before remembering she can't hear him.

 _Yeah,_ he types _._

_Knew it. I'd kneel between your thighs and suck you off. You wouldn't even have to get undressed, I love your uniform._

He bites out a moan, remembering the feel of her hot mouth around his cock.

 _I know you do, baby,_ he writes back best he can with one hand.

_I'd take you all the way in, get your cock all wet for my pussy. I'd swallow it all as well, if you wanted me to, or would you want to cum on my face?_

He grunts, swiping his thumb over the head of his cock to gather the pre-cum there and use it as lube.

 _Inside you_ , he types back, jerking his cock faster with his other hand, _wanna cum inside that tight cunt. Fill you up with cum._

 _Fuck, Jon..._ even her typing curses turns him on and through gritted teeth, he bites out one of his own, _please come over, wanna fuck you so bad. Always wanna fuck you._

His chest tightens, eyelids fluttering and teeth digging into his bottom lip in intense concentration. They shouldn't think like this, shouldn't want each other the way they do, but something dark and possessive flares to life inside him.

 _Always?_ he tries his luck, teetering on the boundary they've set for themselves, wanting to know he's good, he's _better_ – that she occasionally thinks of him when someone else is inside her.

 _Always, you arrogant dick_ , she fires back and he thinks he'd laugh, were the situation different, _no-one fucks me like you do._

His chest swells with pride, a smirk tugging at his lips.

 _Are you touching yourself?_ he asks, wanting to reach the peak together.

 _Yes,_ she writes back after a beat.

_Good. I want you to stroke yourself and imagine my tongue, imagine riding my face. Love eating your cute little pussy, baby._

_Fuck Jon, I'm gonna cum._

He gives an audible moan, jerking his cock harder until he feels that liquid heat pool in the pit of his belly. She sends another message before he can reply, and it fires him into an orgasm so intense, he swears his eyes roll.

_Cum for me, daddy._

He jerks in the chair, ruining his shirt and painting it sticky white with cum. He drops the phone onto the table, practically shaking in the afterglow, and runs a tired hand over his face.

Five minutes pass before his phone lights up the dark room once more.

_Key's under the mat. See you in 20._

“Well, well…”

“Shit!”

Jon bites out a curse as he tries to sneak through the door, rolling his eyes at the way Sam turns the lamp on next to him, illuminating his face like some sort of Hollywood villain.

“And where have you been?”

Jon scoffs, tossing his keys somewhere he’ll forget about later.

He collapses on the sofa opposite his flatmate, thoroughly exhausted. He was already tired from work, but now his limbs ache from an entirely different physical activity, and judging by the grin (and slight blush) on Sam’s face, his friend knows _exactly_ where he’s been.

He runs a hand over his face, pausing at his chin to scratch his beard.

“Have you just been waiting up for me?” he asks, arching a brow, “that’s pretty sad, Sam.”

Sam flushes slightly, the tips of his ears turning red, and Jon _almost_ feels guilty.

“I just got back from the library, was studying late. I noticed you weren’t in.”

Jon gives a sympathetic wince. “PhD kicking your arse, huh?”

“Yep, should be ready to kill myself any day now,” Sam quips with false enthusiasm, “I don’t know how I ever thought it would be a good idea.”

Jon shrugs, knowing he can’t relate. He never got past school, going straight into the police force, and while he’s confident he’s a smart guy, academics was never exactly his thing.

“Well, I’d love to chat,” he starts, slapping his thighs as he gives a sigh and stands up, “but I am _exhausted._ G’night Sam.”

He heads to the kitchen to grab some water when Sam’s voice stops him in his tracks.

“Jon… are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

Arching a brow, he turns around, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What do you mean?”

Sam shuffles in his seat – Jon can tell he’s nervous - and he gives a soft shrug.

“Sansa,” is all he says.

Jon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“We’ve talked about this,” he warns, tone dismissive, as he heads into the kitchen and opens the fridge door. He’s just eyeing up a bottle of water when Sam’s voice pipes up again, apparently now behind him, and he closes his eyes, fingers curling around the top of the fridge.

“We haven’t talked about it so much as I’ve asked what’s going on and you’ve told me to butt out,” Sam points out, using language far more diplomatic and far less colourful than Jon had.

Jon sighs again, taking the bottle of water and closing the fridge door. He turns around and leans against it, eyeing Sam up and down as he unscrews the lid and takes a sip.

“Exactly,” he says, like nothing’s changed. He still doesn’t want to discuss it. Briefly, he curses this very room, the room where Sam found out in the first place.

He curses his impatience that day, his need to have her there and then. He wonders why he thought it would be a good idea to push her against the kitchen table in the middle of the day, leading to a very flustered Sam walking in on a very aroused Jon’s hand down her pants.

They’d jumped apart, trying to come up with excuses, but Sam was having none of it and to this day, he’s still the only one who knows. The only one Jon’s told, at least. He’s unsure whether Sansa has told any of her friends, but he _swears_ sometimes Margaery looks at him with a glint in her eye. Then again, that could just be Margaery.

“The statistics show that the relationships between “friends with benefits” rarely work out the way both parties want them to. One of you is bound to want more and bound to get hurt. I’m just trying to look out for you.”

“I appreciate that,” Jon says dryly, “but Sansa and I have been doing this on and off since we were seventeen and neither of us are hurt and neither of us want more. I don’t expect you to understand, but it works for us.”

Sam still looks like he’s struggling and his brows draw into a frown.

“But you like her, right?”

“I love her,” Jon shrugs, a fact as simple as breathing.

“So why aren’t you with her?”

“It’s not that sort of — it’s not like that,” Jon struggles, letting out a small grunt of frustration, “she’s _family._ I never, _ever_ want to see her hurt. I should never have touched her in the first place. The Starks took me in when I had no-one and I repaid them by — it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk about this, Sam.”

The subject burns too hot, pressing too close, and Jon wants to run.

But a bolt of understanding is flashing through Sam’s eyes.

“You feel guilty,” he says, rather than asks, “the Starks are your family. Ned’s your foster father, for all intents and purposes. Robb’s your best friend… and you feel like you’re betraying him by carrying on a relationship with his little sister—”

“—it’s not a relationship,” Jon intercepts, the weak justification inadvertently proving Sam’s point.

“—so you think keeping her at arm’s length somehow makes it better,” he arches a brow, “you want to stop, but you can’t, so you hide behind sex because you think it’s easier. I don’t know Sansa well, but coupled with her super clinical way of looking at things and her troubled past, I gather this arrangement suits her pretty well too. You don’t have to get too close, and you can keep dating other people because other people don’t have the power to hurt you the way you would hurt each other.”

Jon feels his jaw clench, his blood thrumming too hot, his pulse pounding too fast in his ears.

“That’s enough, Sam.”

Sam seems to get the picture, because he secedes with a slight tip of his head. He gives him a small smile, a happy nod, and steps out of the way when Jon brushes past him.

His hand curls too tight around the bottle of water, the middle finger of his other coming up to scratch between his brows.

When he’s finally in his room, he slams the door harder than necessary.

“I should _definitely_ switch to psychology,” Sam’s mutter carries through the wood.


	3. Chapter 3

Jon gives Sansa a small smile as he climbs out his car, shoving the keys into his back pocket.

From across the drive, she locks her own car and walks over to him. She stumbles slightly in her too-tall stilettos, cursing when the heel gets stuck in the gravel driveway, and he shakes his head with a small laugh.

He lets his eyes drift over her, from her auburn hair, shiny and perfect curled, down to her simple black dress and those death-trap shoes.

She looks beautiful, but then she always looks beautiful, and he cocks a brow, giving a low whistle.

"Pulling out all the stops tonight, huh?" he says quietly, extending a hand for her to take.

She rolls her eyes but her cheeks are tinged slightly red and she takes his arm, wobbly on her feet.

"At least I know where to go when I break my ankle," she mutters, holding onto him tighter as they walk up the steps to the front door.

"And you thought being a doctor would never come in handy," he teases, throwing her a lopsided smile.

As they reach the door, he's just about to knock when she stops him.

"Wait," she lets go of him, leaning down to rummage through her clutch bag. He waits, head tipped to the side in curiosity, as she pulls out a navy tie.

"You know my mother likes us to be smart," she says softly, leaning up to place the tie around his neck, "and I knew you would forget."

He gives a low chuckle, his brow still arched as she lifts his collar and starts to fasten the tie.

"What would I do without you?" he murmurs, only half joking, as she finishes the knot, puts his collar back down and gives the tie a playful tug.

"I dread to think," she drawls and she's still holding onto the end. She tugs it slightly, pulling him in, and he watches her gaze flit from his eyes to his lips and back again. His own eyes narrow, a quirk to his mouth, as he wonders what she's doing – especially _here_ , outside her family home where any of them could open the door.

"What are you doing?" he asks her as much in a husky whisper, as he feels her breath on his lips and she tugs him closer still.

She doesn't answer, her brow delicately arched as her gaze flickers to his mouth again. She's so close, he can feel her warmth and smell her perfume and his fingers itch to touch her, to drag her to him.

"Aren't you always telling me to take some risks?" she murmurs and as she speaks, her lips brush his, just enough to give him a taste of cherry gloss and smoke from the cigarettes she says she's given up and something else that's distinctly _her_.

His low reply rumbles against her, their breaths dancing in the gap between them.

"I do love risks…"

He dips his head, watching her eyes flutter closed, when he hears the click of the lock.

He steps back, putting some distance between them and placing an appropriate hand on the small of her back.

Ned stands on the other side, a warm smile lighting up his face.

"Hi baby," he croons to Sansa, opening his arms for a hug. Jon watches her cheeks flush, watches her to go him immediately, no hesitation as she accepts his embrace. Other than himself, the men in her family are the only ones she can hug without clamming up, without flinching. It's nice to see.

Once they've broken apart and Sansa heads into the house, Ned turns to Jon, clasping a hand on his shoulder.

"Glad you could make it, son," he smiles, keeping his hand on his shoulder as he guides him inside.

Something pulls in Jon's chest, a slight ache. He recognises the sensation as guilt and he pushes it down.

Ned wouldn't call him that if he knew what he did to his daughter.

Jon loves the Starks.

He's loved them for as long as he can remember, his substitute family, unwanted and unloved by everyone else. Sometimes, he thinks he can remember his mother. Her face is always blurred, always slightly out of focus, but he can see brown eyes and a soft smile and the same dark curls she gave him. He can hear the whisper of her voice, singing him to sleep. He can feel the ghost of her kiss on his cheek.

At one point, he thinks he remembered her well. But as the years pass, the memories fade. Her face slips away, blurring into a nameless shadow.

Ned always said that Lyanna was brave, strong willed and a little wild. She was his best friend and he had love for her — not the same love he had for Catelyn, but love all the same - and the night she died was once of the worsts of his life. He had taken Jon in, a sprawling little thing who didn't have anyone else, and raised him as his own.

Jon doesn't know his father well, doesn't care to. In twenty-eight years, he's met him a handful of times. Rhaegar is a stranger to him, a man whose name he won't even take. He had been married when he met Lyanna Snow, had probably spun her tales of leaving his wife and starting a family, but he wasn't there when Jon was born and he wasn't there when her broken body was pulled from the wreckage of her car.

Jon knows the Starks have been good to him, _the best_ , which is why he feels so guilty. In the kitchen, he watches as Sansa finishes cutting some bread for the table. Soft palms against the white, he wonders if that's what his hands look like when they're on her, touching her in the dark where no-one can see.

He turns his face away and clenches his jaw.

"You okay?" she asks quietly, noticing his discomfort out of the corner of her eye. He gives her a quick nod, faking a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Do you need some help?" he asks, pushing off the kitchen table from where he's standing with his arms crossed over his chest. She smiles, passing him the bread to take to the table where they're all waiting. He takes it, their fingertips brushing, as Catelyn Stark walks into the kitchen to serve the rest of the food.

The atmosphere turns tense, frostier, as she smiles at Sansa and doesn't look at him.

Jon's used to it, brushes it off with ease, stops it from penetrating too deep.

While Ned has always insisted there was never anything romantic between him and Lyanna, Catelyn has always been suspicious. She never liked it when Jon was given attention, thinking it took away from her own children. In his darkest moments, Jon wonders what the kind and gentle Ned sees in her, a woman who is fiercely loyal, but who can also be abrasive and cold and cruel.

When he was a boy, he would copy what Robb did, desperate to please her. He would watch, sick with jealousy, as she ruffled his auburn curls and told him he was her special boy, or bounced Sansa on her knee, or sang Bran to sleep. By the time Arya and Rickon came along, he had been hardened, no longer desperate for any scraps of her attention, to be allowed to call her _mother_.

"Come," she beckons them quietly, still not quite looking at him, even as she passes him a plate to carry, "help me serve up."

He takes it from her in his free hand, one eyebrow slightly arched, as he wordlessly moves into the dining room.

As he goes, he catches the disapproving glare Sansa sends her mother.

It won't change anything, it never does, but he appreciates it all the same.

“Can you please pass the salt?” Bran asks over the chatter at the table, his voice barely breaking through. It’s nearest to him so Jon takes it, leaning over Arya next to him to pass it to Bran.

Catelyn shakes her head disapprovingly when Bran covers his meal in it.

Jon picks at his food, twirling a piece of spaghetti around his fork, before stabbing at a meatball.

Theon’s late as usual, and Rickon’s face is covered in tomato sauce, and Sansa’s nose is scrunched up as she’s _told_ her mother she’s a vegetarian a hundred times now, and Jon thinks the whole thing is… perfect.

“You look tired, darling,” Ned’s observation is aimed at Sansa and his gruff voice is lined with concern.

There’s a soft quirk to Sansa’s mouth but Jon notices her roll her eyes, probably at her family’s ever-present concern, and he would smile, but then he catches the way Petyr Baelish is looking at her and his mood instantly sours.

Petyr is sitting next to his wife, Catelyn’s sister Lysa. Jon’s never liked the woman. If he was being polite, he’d call her neurotic, if he was being truthful, he’d call her batshit insane - but it’s nothing compared to the dislike he feels for her smarmy husband.

He sees the way he looks at Sansa, the way he’s _always_ looked at Sansa, and he’s not the jealous type, but it makes his blood run too hot in his veins.

“She’s been working very hard,” Petyr answers for her, his mouth curling into that snakelike grin, and Jon stares at his plate, “and it’s paying off. She’s one of our most promising junior doctors.”

 _Dr_ Petyr Baelish works at the same hospital, a well-respected and revered cardiology consultant, but even the fact that he _saves lives_ doesn’t make Jon dislike him any less.

Ned smiles brightly, seemingly happy with the response.

“We’re so proud of you, Sansa,” he tells her, reaching across the table to pat her hand, “but we don’t want you to overwork yourself. You have to find some time to relax.”

He reads her like a book, the calm and reticent Ned, and Sansa tries a brief smile.

“It’s okay, Dad,” she tries to appease him, “I do find… certain ways to let off steam, you don’t need to worry.”

At that, Jon _swears_ her gaze flickers to him, and he shifts in his seat as images suddenly sear behind his vision – of _exactly_ how she looks after she’s “let off steam”, that post-orgasm haze, the happy, relaxed smile on her previously tense face after he brings her to a peak. He knows her body as well as he knows his own, has learned how to make her come in under five minutes, and with an arched brow, he wonders if she’s playing with him.

“She _says_ that…” Petyr is drawling suddenly, cocking a brow of his own, “…but the _number_ of times I’ve tried to set her up with Dr Hardyng is woeful indeed. He’s an exceedingly talented trainee in my department, Ned, and I’m sure he’d be a wonderful distraction from work if given the chance.”

Jon’s gaze snaps to her then, unaware that there was a man in the picture at all. She’s never mentioned him, this _Dr Hardyng,_ and he doesn’t like the way she shifts in her seat, seemingly uncomfortable.

Worse than that, he _swears_ Petyr’s sly gaze keeps drifting to him, like he’s in on something, a secret he’s not sharing – _their secret._ It feels like he’s taunting him, goading him, and Jon’s bristles under the implication.

“Maybe Sansa doesn’t _want_ a man,” Arya speaks then, rolling her eyes and aggressively stabbing her fork into a meatball, “a relationship isn’t the only way a woman can be happy, you know.”

Jon catches Margaery’s proud smirk from across the table, knows her to be as staunch a feminist as Arya, and Robb hides his laugh behind his wine glass too.

“Well, I’m happy being the main man in her life,” Ned laughs, probably trying to diffuse the tension, and he takes Sansa’s hand again, “she’s always been a daddy’s girl.”

Jon chokes on his wine, eyes flying to him as he tries to cover it up with a cough.

He thinks of all the times she’s called him _daddy -_ panted it, moaned it, _sobbed_ it – her long legs wrapped around him, her nails scratching down his back to leave marks she’ll blush at days later. Everyone thinks she’s such a good girl, so innocent, but he remembers how hard she came that time he pulled her hair and called her a slut.

Sansa glares at him pointedly and he reads her expression as telling him to get a hold of himself.

“Why _don’t_ you give this boy a chance, Sansa?” Catelyn is speaking now and Jon glares at his food again, a clench to his jaw, “I always imagined you with another doctor.”

The words pull at something in his chest, this reminder of everything she is and everything he’s not.

 _Not good enough,_ the words jab at him like the pitter-patter of a heartbeat. It’s everything he’s tried to repress since he was young, a little boy who knew he was different, who noticed Robb’s auburn hair and wanted to pull his own inky curls out at the root.

“Can we not?” Sansa says dryly, knocking back what must be her fourth glass of wine.

For some unfathomable reason, Jon’s fingers itch for a cigarette. He gave up months ago, caved under Dr Sansa’s medical horror stories. It was ridiculously hypocritical; he knew for a fact she occasionally indulged. He had noticed it on her earlier that evening, imagined her smoking one in her car as she prepared herself for tonight, rolling down the windows to let the air in and mask the smell.

But still, Sansa had told him to stop, so he did.

Now, with all this talk of _Harry Hardyng,_ he can’t remember why.

Theon arrives just as Catelyn’s serving dessert.

He gives each of the Stark women a kiss on their cheek, ruffles Rickon’s hair and collapses into the empty space next to Robb with a half-hearted apology. Robb glares at him through narrowed eyes but calms when an amused Margaery places her hand over his on the table.

By this time, Arya’s eating quickly, her leg bouncing in excitement, eager to finish. Jon has a sneaking suspicion she wants to drag him outside, out in the garden where they can train. He’s been teaching her some basic self-defence coupled with boxing, and she’s been coming along nicely.

Arya’s a proper Stark, Ned and Catelyn’s youngest daughter, but she doesn’t fit in either. Jon loves her. Not the way he loves Sansa, something confusing and unexplainable. There are no shades of grey in the way he loves Arya, and the purity of it is almost a relief.

They’ve always been close, and maybe it’s this desire to spend time with him, or maybe it’s just her impatience that makes her blurt out, “why did you want us to come here, Robb?”

They all stop talking, their eyes snapping to her.

Robb blinks once, twice, then clears his throat.

“Okay, I guess now is as good a time as any,” he glances to Margaery out of the corner of his eye, and when she gives him a soft smile and nod, he stands up.

Jon cocks a brow, his finger dancing along the edge of his wine glass. His body still feels tense, his muscles taut and his mood sour, and he yearns for something stronger. Something brown that burns on the way down. At the back of his mind, he wonders if Ned will let them raid his liqueur cabinet after dinner.

“We wanted to gather you all here because you’re the most important people in the world to us and we have some news.”

Arya rolls her eyes, faking a puking noise, but she straightens with a pout when Sansa kicks her under the table.

Robb continues, undeterred.

“Last week, I asked Margaery to marry me…” his face is lit up and Jon’s never seen him so happy and Catelyn gasps from the end of the table, “…and she said yes.”

Everyone erupts into various sounds of happiness, Theon slapping Robb on the back, Catelyn rushing up and embracing Margaery in a hug.

Jon can’t help but smile, genuinely happy for his best friend. He knows how Robb adores Margaery, has from the moment he met her four years ago, back when he went to pick Sansa up for dinner after her shift and bumped into Margaery in the hallway.

Theon always joked that Robb had a thing for her nurse’s uniform, but Jon knew from the start it was more than that.

“I just wanted to say,” Robb’s continuing now, his eyes for Margaery, “in front of everyone we love, you make me happier than I ever thought I could be. I love you, I have from the moment I met you, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you by my side.”

Margaery smiles up at him, gently taking his hand and placing a kiss to his palm. He cups her face then, and there are collective coos of adoration, even a smile from Arya.

Jon’s eyes flit across the table but through it all, for reasons he can’t even begin to decipher, something always drags him back to Sansa.

Jon leans against the wall, letting the cigarette Theon gave him hang from his teeth as he rummages in his pocket for the lighter.

Once he's found it and lit the cigarette, he watches the flame engulf the end and tries to empty his mind. He breathes the smoke in, the sensation of just how _good_ it feels overriding the accomplishment he previously felt for months without.

For some inexplicable reason, he thinks about Sansa.

He thinks about her hair, and her smile, and the way she snorts a bit when she laughs, and suddenly the tie feels like a noose around his neck. 

He hears the click of the lock as the back door opens, interrupting his reverie.

“You know, smoking accounts for 80,000 deaths per year,” Petyr Baelish’s voice fills his ears and Jon fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“Really?” he asks dryly, tapping away some of the ash, “I was under the impression it was good for you.”

Petyr’s lips twitch but it’s not quite a smile.

He closes the door and comes to stand next to him, staring straight ahead.

“Happy news, isn’t it?” he says again, tone deceptively polite, and Jon just wants him to stop talking, “About Robb and sweet Margaery.”

Tiny shards of discomfort stab at Jon’s chest. It feels like he’s dragging them in with every breath, so he takes another drag, filling his lungs with smoke instead.

“Sure is,” Jon says casually.

Petyr is undeterred, his eyes narrowing.

“I wonder which Stark will be next,” the implication – that Jon is unequivocally _not_ a Stark – is clear and he feels his jaw clench.

“I have no idea, Baelish,” he says tiredly and finishes the cigarette, stumping it out in the ashtray on the garden table. He goes to walk back inside, his attempt to escape for a moment and _breathe_ ruined by the presence of his least favourite person at the party.

“Perhaps _you_ can talk to Sansa about Dr Hardyng,” Petyr’s voice stops him in his tracks, his hand hovering over the door handle.

He shouldn’t rise to it.

He should walk inside.

He should find Robb and shake his hand and kiss Margaery on the cheek and let Rickon ride around on his shoulders.

He’s _going_ to walk inside.

But then his anger stirs and he bites.

“And why would I do that?”

“You seem close… and surely you’d want what’s best for her.”

Jon turns around, a storm in his steel grey eyes.

“I want what _she_ wants. I want her to be happy. Beyond that, it’s none of my business.”

“Really?” Petyr rumbles, a slight smirk to his mouth as he tips his head to the side.

“Really.” Jon confirms, voice low and dangerous, “Now if you don’t mind…”

“They say you’re a good man,” Petyr continues, making him falter again, “The Starks. They love you like a son. Truthfully, I don’t see the appeal. I wonder if they still would… if they knew the truth.”

Jon clenches his jaw, his blood turning hot, his temper flaring under his skin. This whole night has been too much, accusations and foreign feelings and implications burning too bright, pressing too close. He constructs his walls high around him, feigning indifference.

There’s nothing he can say, the words lodged in his throat, so Petyr continues.

“Sansa is a bright, brilliant young woman. A gifted doctor. She deserves more than a life of skulking in the shadows, resigned to a dirty little secret. Your career is… admirable, indeed, but she needs someone on her level. I mean, _really,_ Jon… what kind of a life could you offer her?”

Jon lifts his chin, arching his brow and trying to ignore the sudden tightness in his chest.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he rumbles smoothly.

Petyr laughs through his nose, a small, humourless sound.

“Yes, you do.”

Baelish leaves him with a small, satisfied smirk and Jon finds himself in the kitchen, still too rattled to go inside.

He leans against the countertop, watching his knuckles turn white as his hands curl into the kitchen sink.

After five minutes of uncomfortable silence, the kitchen door swings open and Sansa walks in.

He's still fuming, his blood running hot in his veins, and he grabs her by the waist - because even though she's the reason Baelish was taunting him, she's the only one who makes him feel better too.

She lets out a husky laugh, not sounding surprised at all, as he manoeuvres them until her front is pressed against the counter and he's behind her.

He bites the side of her neck, his hands tightening on her waist.

"Let me guess," she tips her head to the side, both to give him better access to her neck and to keep an eye on the door, "Petyr pushing your buttons?"

He practically growls into her hair, his hands coming to grasp the counter in-front of her, caging her in. He doesn't answer, his mouth preoccupied with her neck, so she says something else instead.

"Gonna use me to forget about him?"

Her tone is easy, casual, and he supposes it's a fair enough assertion. They _do_ use each other. And yet, the accusation flares something hot in his gut and his chest feels too tight.

"Isn't that what we're here for?"

It’s a question that doesn’t need an answer, but Jon wants one all the same. It’s almost a dare, wrapped up in honey and thorns, a dangerous gateway into the unknown. 

A laugh is the only answer he receives and his hand reaches under her dress, slipping between her warm thighs, hot and sweet and wet for him. She swiftly turns around, bottom lip caught between her teeth as her hands anchor themselves on his belt, the same belt she bought him for Christmas a year ago.

If they were alone right now, if they weren't standing in the kitchen of her family home, he's pretty sure she'd be unbuckling it, dropping to her knees.

She kisses him instead, looping her arms around his neck.

He closes his eyes and forgets all about Petyr Baelish.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short(ish) update as I have it written and wanted to get something out! Get ready for some clubbing & some smut next chapter🤭 
> 
> TW: child death/mention of cancer.

The harsh shrill of the doorbell - the one Jon's begged Sam to change on multiple occasions - jolts him awake.

He runs a tired hand over his face, seriously considering letting Sam open it before he realises he's at Gilly's for the night. He then considers not answering it at all, but when it rings insistently again, he throws the covers off himself with an exasperated huff.

He slumps to the door, raking his fingers through his dishevelled curls, devoid of the band normally tying them back.

When the person on the other side switches to banging on the door with what sounds like a fist, Jon rolls his eyes, taking the chain off the latch and unlocking the door.

"Alright, alright..." he mutters as he swings it open.

He's not sure who he expected to be on the other side, but it sure as hell isn't Sansa, blurry-eyed and still in her scrubs.

"Can I come in?" she blurts out before he can speak, her tone clipped and tight with tears, like she's scared he'll say no.

He stares at her for a moment, taken aback. He's sure they hadn't planned to meet tonight, wracks his brain for something he's missed, but then she shifts on her feet awkwardly and he realises it doesn't matter.

He's going to let her in regardless. He'll always let her in.

He stands back, opening the door wider in a silent gesture. She brushes past him, adjusting her ponytail as she does so, tightening the band.

"Do you have any alcohol?" she heads straight to his kitchen, rummaging through his cupboards where he sometimes keeps a bottle of red she likes.

He watches her for a moment, arms crossed over his chest and silent as he leans against the doorway, and she sighs in exasperation when she finds the cupboard empty.

"Sam drank it on his last date night with Gilly," he shrugs before she can ask. He watches her tiredly rub at her temples and lean against the kitchen counter.

His head tips to the side, his dark eyes flickering over her.

"Are you okay?"

She doesn't answer, but she shakes her head softly. Her head bows, her eyes drifting shut, and when she lifts her gaze and opens them again, he's surprised to see them brimming with unshed tears.

He says her name, a low murmur, as he walks towards her. He stops just before her, wary of pushing, of pressing too close. She's never been good with her emotions, has struggled with intimacy since Joffrey Baratheon put his hands on her, and Jon always waits for permission.

"We lost a kid today," she whispers, her voice thin, and the first tear escapes her eye, "cancer."

Jon stares at her, his chest too tight. He sees her then, all the parts of her she never lets anyone see. Kind and compassionate and totally devoted. He knows her rotation in paediatrics has been tough, knows there's a nurturing side to her she keeps well hidden, and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't worried for this moment.

"I'm sorry, Sansa," he offers and she lets him take her hand.

"It's just part of the job, you know?" she says, but her fingers tighten around his and her voice cracks at the end, "I knew that. I've always known that. But Jon, this kid… he was so sweet and kind and he was in so much pain. He didn't deserve this. It's just brutal."

She's openly crying now, tear tracks glittering on her flushed cheeks. Jon tugs on her hand, pulling her into his body. She chokes on a sob, a tiny, vulnerable sound that pulls at his chest, and he wraps her up in his arms.

He doesn't say anything – there's nothing he _can_ say – and he feels her tears soak into his shirt. Her hands fist the material, bunching it, before she wraps her arms around his waist and he rests his chin on her head.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs again, holding her tight, one hand on her head and the other softly stroking up and down her back.

After a moment, she lifts her head, glancing up at him with teary eyes.

"Can I stay with you tonight?" she asks, her voice small and fragile, "I know it's not… _normal_ … for us to do that, but… there's nowhere else I wanted to go."

It's _not_ normal. They made a pact years ago, back when this all started, that they would never stay the night together. It blurred the lines, made things more complicated than they needed to be, and neither were ever ready for anything more.

This is even more irregular, to spend the night together when sex isn't involved.

Just because she wants to be near him.

It's something strange, something new, and how can he say no? More than that, he doesn't _want_ to say no – and that rattles him.

"Of course," he says with a small, sad twitch of his mouth because he was never going to say anything else.

He doesn't know why they do it. He doesn't know who moves first. All he knows is that one minute they're looking at each other, and the next their foreheads are touching, their mouths brushing against each other's.

She kisses him.

She lifts her chin, her eyes fluttering shut, and he complies without thinking. It's a sweet kiss, small and still and clearly for comfort. He can feel her lips tremble under his and he can taste her tears and really, it's barely a kiss at all, but it's still the most intimate one they've ever shared.

An hour later, Jon watches her sleep, curled up in his bed, wearing nothing but one of his old faded grey t-shirts.

Her scrubs are draped over his chair, her hair loose from its restricting band, flowing like red silk over his pillow. Her brows are creased in her sleep, small whimpers of pain falling from her lips, and he wishes he could fix it, wishes he could make her feel better.

He reaches for her, just touching the backs of two fingers to her cheek, gentle and almost curious. When she leans into his hand, he pulls it back, rubbing it tiredly over his face. 

He can't stop looking at her – and he falls asleep with a rock of discomfort in the pit of his stomach.

Jon runs his fingers through his loose curls as he listens to Robb speak, taking a swig from his bottle of beer.

They're waiting for Margaery and Sansa to finish getting ready, a plan underway to spend the night at a club downtown celebrating the engagement. They're already late as Theon's three _"where r u?"_ texts to Robb and two to Jon can attest, and the last time they checked, the girls hadn't even finished their makeup.

"So I said to Sans, are you sure? Like, okay, the dude's a doctor, _whatever_ , doesn't mean he's a good guy."

This catches Jon's attention and the bottle pauses at his lips.

"Sorry, what?"

"Harry Hardyng," Robb rolls his eyes at the name, "aren't you listening? Apparently he's been asking her out weekly for like six months and she finally broke and said yes."

Jon blinks before taking a sip.

"Really?" despite the alcohol warming his throat, it still feels dry, "I thought after Robin, she wasn't interested in dating."

Robb gives a shrug, taking a gulp of his own beer.

"Maybe she just broke, apparently the dude's persistent," he grumbles and he doesn't sound happy about that, "or maybe she thinks the _good doctor_ will make Mom happy. Either way, I'm not buying it. He sounds like a pussy."

Jon smirks, matching Robb's husky laugh, even as a strange, confusing chill sweeps over his skin.

He can't dwell on it for too long because Sansa and Margaery are finally ready, appearing from her bedroom into the kitchen.

Robb stands, wrapping his arm around his fiancé's waist and placing a kiss on her cheek. He holds her at arm's length, giving a low whistle as he quirks his brow and his appreciative eyes sweep over her fitted black dress. She rolls her eyes, sending him a characteristic smirk.

Jon bites his lip as his own eyes drift over Sansa. The dress she's wearing is skin tight, falling mid-thigh, a sultry red that matches the fire in her hair. That hair is loose, hanging in soft curls around her shoulders, her lips painted crimson.

She moves over to him as Robb and Margaery speak, and suddenly she's so close, he can smell her perfume and feel her warmth and see how the makeup she took so long to do makes the blue of her eyes pop and _fuck,_ she's beautiful.

"You look nice," he says politely, giving her a small smile.

She smiles back, punching him softly on his shoulder.

He wants to ask her about Harry. He wants to ask if she's really planning on going out with him and if she thinks about that kiss the other night as much as he does, because that was _different_. He wants to know if her staying the night bothers her like it bothers him, because they haven't talked about that yet.

He can't ask her any of these things because suddenly two disparate ring tones are sounding out and Arya's calling her, and Theon's calling Robb. They both leave the room muttering down their phones.

Jon's left with Margaery, the atmosphere a little awkward between them, as she narrows her eyes at him. She watches him like she's trying to figure him out and Jon tenses slightly under the scrutiny.

"You okay, Marge?" he asks, tone friendly, as he picks his beer up and takes another swig.

"Sure," she shrugs, placing a hand on her hip, before she drawls, "I'm just wondering… how long have you been in love with my best friend?"

Her tone is casual, like she's talking about the weather, and Jon chokes on his drink, coughing slightly as he places the bottle down again.

"What?"

Margaery quirks a brow, tipping her head.

"You heard me."

He blinks, a disbelieving scoff falling from his lips.

"I'm not in love with Sansa."

Margaery rolls her eyes, giving him a deadpan stare.

"Fine," she concedes, though she clearly doesn't believe him, "then how long have you been fucking her?"

He swallows, eyes dark and his hand running over his face.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says, his jaw tight, and he's so _sick_ of lying.

"Sansa told me," Margaery cuts straight to the point, "and even if she hadn't... it's pretty obvious. You watch her, Jon. I doubt you know how much."

He bristles, feeling like he's under attack. He picks the bottle up again, just so he can pick at the label, just so he has something to preoccupy himself with, and he's too full of energy.

"I'm not going to tell Robb," she says calmly and his eyes snap to her, "but I hope you know what you're doing."

_I don't._

"I do."

She nods, opening the fridge to grab the bottle of Pinot Grigio she and Robb keep there. The atmosphere is thin and quiet as she opens it, pouring herself a glass.

"And you know about Harry?"

He bristles again and just like that, that inexplicable ache in his chest is back.

"I know _of_ him," he shrugs, "Robb said they might be going out."

"She's planning on discussing it with you tonight. How do you feel about that?"

He scoffs, sitting down at the table again.

"You're not at the hospital now, Marge," he tries to keep the tone light, "you don't have to psychoanalyse me."

She smirks, taking a sip of wine.

"I'm just asking, as her friend _and_ yours," her voice is quieter then, softer, and Jon doesn't like it. He wants the old snarky Margaery back, he doesn't want to think about these things. "I'm not going to say I understand it, but if you want to talk... I'm here. Not only for her, but for you too."

His mouth twitches under his beard, somewhat surprised by her kindness, her compassion. But then, Margaery has always surprised him.

"I'm gonna go check on Robb," she says after a beat, placing the wine glass down, "see if he needs any help with Theon."

They share in an easy laugh, but as she turns to walk away, his mouth opens without his permission.

"Margaery?" she turns around, arching a perfect brow, "why is she going out with him?"

He doesn't know why he asks it, why it comes flying out of him, and he practically winces.

There's a sparkle in her eye and she doesn't look surprised at all by his question.

"Sansa's not a risk a taker," she says gently, "and Harry's not much of a risk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember this is a Jon/Sansa story! I don't wanna call Harry a "plot device" buuut... I'm all about the angst with a happy ending.


	5. Chapter 5

The club is pulsing with heat, music vibrating from head to toe. As they walk inside and search for their friends, Jon's eyes flit over the booze lining the bar, the bodies dancing away on the club floor.

It's not exactly his scene. He's long outgrown partying until the early hours, drinking himself into a stupor, waking up in unfamiliar beds with even more unfamiliar women. And he's _always_ hated dancing.

This was the sort of place he and Robb used to go when they were in their early twenties but Robb's an engaged man now and Jon's... well, Jon doesn't know _what_ he is, but he sure as _fuck_ isn't... _this._

But this isn't about him. It's about Margaery and Robb - and this _is_ Margaery's scene.

She loves letting her hair down. She loves partying and having fun and living life to the fullest, and Robb loves... well, _her._

They find Arya and her boyfriend Gendry first, chatting by the bar. When she squeals and flings her arms around his neck, Jon notices how glassy her eyes are and he quirks a brow, hugging her close.

He can see Sansa notices too because her nose scrunches in disapproval and she crosses her arms over her chest.

"You're drunk," she says flatly, and it's not a question.

Arya rolls her eyes, stumbling on her feet slightly.

"And you're boring," she drawls, lightly poking at her shoulder with a finger, "come on, Sans, lighten up for once! It's not every day our big brother gets _engaged_!"

Her excitement is infectious as she hugs Robb next, practically jumping into his arms. Robb catches her with a grunt of surprise, lifting her off her feet and giving a husky chuckle. When he puts her down, she embraces Margaery, and Gendry shakes Jon's hand.

"Sorry," he mumbles, his cheeks tinged pink, "I forgot what a lightweight she is."

"You better not be apologising for me, Gendry!"

Arya barks before Jon can say anything and Jon laughs under his breath, giving Gendry a conciliatory pat on the shoulder.

Before long, they find a rather uncomfortable Sam in one of the corner booths. Gilly's next to him, surrounding them with that calm aura she seems to carry with her, a soft smile on her lips and a hand curling around his thigh. A smirking Theon doesn't appear for another thirty minutes or so, emerging from the restrooms looking rather dishevelled, and Jon watches Sansa's brow quirk suspiciously when Jeyne appears too, embracing her rather shakily with her lipstick smudged.

He watches as her thumb comes up to wipe at the edge of Jeyne's mouth, her own red lips pursed in their attempt to hold in a laugh. Jeyne blushes the colour of Sansa's dress and Sansa rolls her eyes, hugging her again as Theon embraces Robb too. 

An hour later, sipping at his third beer, Jon's surprised to find he's enjoying himself.

He's standing at the bar, trying to engage in conversation with an attractive blonde. She's saying all the right things. She's flirty without being over the top, confident without being arrogant, chatty without talking _too_ much, and her perfume smells good and her pretty hair is all half up, half glossy waves and _yet..._

As she speaks, he can't stop his eyes from drifting to Sansa to their left, standing next to Gilly on the other side of the bar.

He tries to stop.

He tries to focus on the girl - _what's her name again? -_ but his attention is dragged to her like a magnet.

He thinks hers is too, because every time his gaze flickers to her, she's watching him, a slight crease to her brow. He can't decipher the look in her eye, can't read it properly.

"So yeah, I guess I _do_ like the North, but..." the girl is speaking and to Jon's mortification, he realises he hasn't been listening, "...overall, I definitely prefer the heat. I'm all about the fire."

Her pink lips twitch and she's clearly flirting and _damn it,_ he _forces_ himself to look at her.

She's beautiful - _stunning,_ really - and he wonders what the hell is wrong with him.

Suddenly her friends are calling her over and she gives a regretful, heavy sigh.

"Look, I have to go," she says, sounding all apologetic, before she reaches into her purse to pull out her lipstick. She lifts her martini glass off the napkin she's using as a coaster and scribbles something down on it, "but here's my number. Call me sometime."

She bunches it up, reaching around him to put it in his back pocket. It's a rather brazen move and he clears his throat, giving her a curt nod.

Sansa's in-front of him just as the girl leaves, replacing her with a curious expression written on her features, and the symbolism isn't lost on him.

"Have a smoke with me?" she asks, softly taking his hand and entwining their fingers.

He arches his brow. "I thought you'd quit."

"I thought you had too," she fires back and he shakes his head with a soft laugh.

He follows her, unable to quit, unable to say no.

That symbolism of that isn't lost on him either.

They lean against the wall of the club, hidden away in a corner of the smoking area, their shoulders brushing.

"There's something I want to talk to you about," she says after a few minutes of easy small talk, tapping away some excess ash from her cigarette.

Jon leans his head against the wall, briefly closing his eyes. He knows what she's going to say, knows she's going to tell him about Harry, and he doesn't quite know how to react.

"Sure," he says, blowing some smoke out of the corner of his mouth, "what is it?"

She doesn't say anything and the atmosphere grows tense in a way that discomforts him. This shouldn't be difficult. It isn't normally difficult. _I'm gonna start dating someone, so we should probably stop._ That's it, that's all there is. They've both said it their fair share of times and it's always been as simple as that, so he doesn't understand why this is so different.

Why he doesn't want her to say it.

"Is it about Harry?" he says to break the tension because he can't stand it anymore.

She looks at him, her eyes widening slightly.

"How do you know about that?"

He gives an easy shrug. "Robb told me he's been asking you out for a while, and obviously Baelish was talking about it before."

"It's not serious," she tries to dismiss it, her cigarette hanging between her index and middle finger, "obviously. I don't really know why I said yes. I guess I just... thought I should give it a go, you know? It's only dinner."

Jon nods, his dark eyes searching her face.

"You don't have to justify yourself to me," he says, taking a drag and blowing the smoke away from her, "you don't owe me anything."

"I know," she says quietly, but she doesn't sound sure, "I just... that kiss the other night... that was weird, right?"

He freezes, the cigarette paused at his lips. Her eyes flickering to it bring to his attention that the end is no longer lit and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out the lighter. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he flicks the lighter open and brings the flame to the end. She lifts her hands, cupping her palms around it, a shield against the windy, cold night air. Cigarette hanging between his teeth, he lets the flame engulf the end, not breaking eye contact. Something seems to ignite between them at the same time, something heady and intense and _new_ , and he doesn't miss how her hands are trembling.

"Yeah," he clears his throat again after taking a drag, "that was... different."

"And confusing," she adds.

"And dangerous," he finishes.

She nods, her eyes flickering to his lips like she's remembering the taste of them.

"We've always been good at keeping a suitable distance," she says, "not blurring the lines. That night... I was so upset about work and I needed comfort and I'm sorry I put you in that position."

He shakes his head.

"We're family, Sansa," he tells her, "I'll always be here for you, regardless of... that."

Her lips twitch, but it's not quite a smile.

"Still... we should probably stop," she nods, almost too frantically, and he watches the movement of her throat as she swallows.

He takes one more drag before finishing the cigarette, stamping it out in the ashtray nearby.

"We should," he husks, his voice gruff, even as something inside him counters _we shouldn't._

Two hours and countless drinks later, Jon finds himself in a dimly lit booth, Sansa next to him.

His arm is extended behind her, resting on the back, and she's leaning into him, her body language clear. Her eyes are a slightly darker blue, her cheeks flushed and gaze glassy, resting in that sweet spot between sober and too drunk, just the right amount.

"Dance with me," she orders suddenly, leaning into him, her hand sliding up and across his leg until her fingers are curling into his inner thigh.

He huffs a laugh, just one corner of his mouth twitching, as he gently shakes his head.

"Come on," she whines, her hand squeezing his thigh. Her fingers are dangerously close to his crotch and he shifts, his eyes darting to the dance floor to make sure no-one can see them.

They're well hidden, the darkness of the booth shrouding them in privacy, and his eyes drift to her mouth.

God, he wants her.

Why does he want her so much?

She stands up, her movements smooth and sultry, and when she's in-front of him, glorious between his spread legs, she holds their entwined hands between them.

" _Dance_ with me," she orders again, tugging at his fingers.

He shakes his head once more, looking up at her with darkened eyes of his own.

Something flashes through her gaze, something mischievous, and before he can process what's happening, she's lowering herself into his lap.

"Sansa," he hisses in warning, aware that they're in public, aware of how inappropriate and out of character and _hot_ this is.

She just smirks in reply, leaning in so her mouth brushes against his earlobe. He bites a groan into her hair when she rolls her hips, his hands travelling to her behind.

"Take me home," she whispers in his ear, her hands travelling to his chest, and the vibration makes him shudder even over the pulsing music.

Something pulls in the pit of his stomach, desire coiling hot and tight.

"I thought you said we should stop."

She pulls back then, her hooded eyes flickering to his mouth.

"Tomorrow," she murmurs huskily, her lips brushing his. She captures his bottom lip and gives it a sensual tug, making him groan, "we'll stop tomorrow."

They're a tangled mess of mouths, tongues and limbs as they stumble through the door, Jon slamming it shut behind them.

He throws the keys somewhere, his hands preoccupied with her ass as he lifts her, encouraging her to wrap her long legs around his waist. She jumps up, curling around him, and he walks them backwards, kicking his bedroom door open and slamming her against it.

"Fuck," she bites out in a whimper, breaking away from his lips and arching against him. He drags his mouth to her neck, planting open mouthed kisses down the length of her flushed skin. He sucks lightly on her collarbone, his stubble scratching softly on her shoulder.

"I'm going to have you," he says - _pants -_ roughly, his hips flexing against hers, bodies seeking friction, "more than once, more than twice..."

If this is the last time for a while, he's going to make it last. There's a possessive side to him that he's never known before, a need to mark her, for her to feel him inside her weeks after this has ended.

"Yes," she hisses, her stomach clutching in response, an insane, dizzying pleasure hanging over both of them like a heavy cloud.

As he thrusts gracelessly between her thighs, he feels her tug softly on his hair. The pleasure of her fingers sliding, twisting gently against his scalp, makes his eyes flutter and he lets out a moan that's more like a growl, capturing her mouth again.

He kisses her like he has something to prove, his mouth slanting over hers, and he groans into her mouth when his hand travels between her thighs, under her dress, and finds her underwear damp.

"So wet for me, baby," he mumbles against her lips, his blood pulsing hotly in his veins.

She nods, slack jawed, completely lost to pleasure. He almost smirks at the thought of what she would say if she was in her right mind, if she could see herself right now - completely wrecked for him. He imagines how she would gasp, outraged at her wild sex hair, shakily trying to comb the thick auburn mass into some sort of order. She would touch her swollen and pink mouth, brushing her lips with trembling fingers. She would watch her reflection take deep breaths in, hold, and breathe out. She would return herself to the normal prim and proper, composed Sansa.

She hasn't been that tonight. She's been wild and mischievous and _free,_ taking what she wants. It does something to him, the way she lets go for him, and his pupils dilate until his eyes are almost black.

"Sam and Gilly will be back soon," she pants as he bites and licks at her neck, "if you want me to scream, you better fuck me now."

He puts her down, sliding her down from the wall, and she complies.

"Spread your legs for me then," he orders, his fingers hot and persistent as they dig into her thighs and help her with the task, and his erection grinds into her, hard and heavy.

He slants his mouth across hers, teeth scraping her bottom lip. They only break away so she can lift his shirt over his head and then his mouth is back on her, his hands reaching behind to unzip her dress. She grinds herself on his thigh as he pulls the zipper down, seeking out her own pleasure.

He bites back a groan at the revelation that she's not wearing a bra, standing there like a goddess in red panties and black heels, and his hands cup her breasts.

"Maybe I'll wait," he murmurs, his voice rough in her ear, as the fingers of one hand tweak her nipple and the other goes between her thighs, rubbing her through the lace, "maybe I _want_ them to hear you. I know they have before. Remember your birthday?"

She screws her eyes shut at the memory. Fucking her against this very wall, tasting the sugary frosting on her tongue, her screams and moans and begs for harder, faster, _more._ The book shelves had rattled, his own grunts carrying through the thin walls, and when they'd finally finished, when Jon had opened the door to get some water, Sansa had caught a glimpse of Sam sneaking out of his own room, red-faced and flushed.

The memory clearly turns her on, because she's suddenly fumbling with his belt.

"I remember," she pants, her eyes a darkened blue as they flicker up to him, fingers on the buckle, "do you remember yours the year before?"

Visions sear behind his eyes, hot and heavy.

Like something from his fantasies, she acts them out.

She knows what she's doing as she gets on her knees, pulling his pants and boxers down in one swoop. Then her mouth is on him like it was the night he turned 26, her tongue swirling over the head of his cock, his groan the same as he buries his fingers in strands of red.

He guides her with one hand wrapped up in her hair, her mouth sliding over his cock. One hand is wrapped around him but he notices the fingers of the other are absentmindedly stroking along the leather of his belt, now on the floor. He grows impossibly harder, biting out a groan, when he remembers what she's thinking about, how he'd tied her hands behind her back with that very belt as he fucked her mouth.

He gently pulls her head back, her mouth now only attached to his cock by a thin string of saliva. She blinks up at him, eyes dark and confused, and he likes this game. He likes reminding her of everything they've shared, wants to make sure she doesn't forget.

He pulls her up, covering her mouth in a heated kiss. He walks her backwards towards his bed, and when they get there, he spins her around, her back against his front. He's hard as a rock, his cock weeping and angry at being denied release, and she moans at the feel of it pressing into her covered behind. He lazily thrusts his hips, one hand coming up to loosely grip her throat, the fingers of the other disappearing under the waistband of her panties.

His fingers effortlessly find her clit and he strokes it in tight circles. She leans back into him, turning her head so she can get at his mouth. Her kiss grows more desperate, sloppier, as she bucks in his hand and chases her pleasure.

The hand not down her underwear travels to her breasts. He cups one in his hand, gently rolling the nipple into a hard peak between his thumb and forefinger.

"Maybe I'll make you come like this," he tells her roughly, mouth brushing at her ear, "it gets me so hot when you come just from me playing with your tits."

She whimpers, remembering the few times that had happened. Before him, she'd said, she didn't know such a thing was even possible. They'd been talking about it almost casually and he'd taken it as a challenge, laying her down and tweaking her nipples and whispering filth into her ears until she went stiff as a board with pleasure.

"How do you want it, baby?" he husks in her ear, "tell me."

A choked moan is her only answer.

"From behind?" he asks, breaking away so he can remove his wet hand from her panties and push at the small of her back, making her bend over the bed. She is moved by him, completely pliant and surrendered, and she grinds her ass against his arousal.

"Like New Years?" she asks, referencing the holiday a few years ago, the first time she'd seen him since he'd broken up with Val. He'd bent her over the desk in Ned Stark's study, pounding into her from behind and pulling her hair. He'd fucked her so hard that her sobs of pleasure and the slap of skin on skin had drowned out the sound of drunk partygoers ringing in the new year, the guilt of taking her on her father's desk, the pain of missing her.

"Mmm," he hums in response, at her question and the corresponding memory, then he hooks his fingers in her panties and pulls them down her long legs.

He takes his cock in his hand, rubbing it up and down her slit, gathering the wetness there. She inhales on a gasp, her forehead pressed to his sheets, her hips gently moving, seeking him out.

When the head of his cock slips between her cheeks, gently nudging at her puckered hole, he hears her scoff.

"I thought we were talking about our memories, not your dreams."

Her tone is light and sarcastic and he can imagine the way she arches a brow, thoroughly unimpressed. He holds back his laugh, giving his cock a few languid strokes before he lines it up with her entrance. He's about to push inside her when he has a change of heart, not ready for the game to finish.

He drops to his knees, feeling her tense at the sudden movement. She doesn't have time to question him before his mouth is on her from behind, his fingers spreading her and his tongue giving her two steady licks from her clit to her soaking entrance.

She bucks in surprise, her fingers curling the sheets into fists and biting out a moan into them, before he flips her around and spreads her legs again.

He hooks her thighs over his shoulders, kissing the inside of her left, the rasp of his beard a sharp contrast against the soft, glistening wetness there.

"Or maybe I'll just do this," he whispers, the hot husk of his breath over her causing her to shudder, resting on her forearms to look down at him between her legs, "like I did the last time you came to me."

He's referencing her break up with Robin and the memory is recent enough to make her moan, probably remembering how good his mouth felt on her that night, eating her out on his couch.

He can feel her thighs shaking from where his fingers grip into them, keeping her spread for him.

"Always come back to me, don't you, baby?"

It's a quiet murmur into her thigh, and something flickers through her eyes, something dark and sad and _real,_ and then his mouth is on her.

" _Jon."_

She whimpers his name, tipping her head back in bliss as his tongue strokes up and down her slit. He knows just what lick, what touch, what suck will bring her closer to the edge and he plays her like an instrument he mastered years ago. His tongue curls, lapping up her wetness, coal-black eyes occasionally flickering up to her face to see her reaction. He pushes his tongue inside her, then outside but further up, in the spot he knows makes her legs go weak.

Her hips push up, searching, desperate, grinding against his face. His lips curl, one arm slinging over her belly to keep her still, his mouth moving diligently. She bites out curses and he wants to hear more. He shakes his head slightly, his nose grinding against her clit as he tenses his tongue and pushes it inside her again.

"Jon, I'm gonna-"

Her warning melts into a choked sob when he pushes a finger inside her and her climax washes over her. She bucks against his mouth, her legs shaking, and he lathes her with his tongue in the afterglow.

He turns his head, panting into her thigh, his lips and beard wet with her as he waits for her to come back down to earth.

She pulls him up her body to cradle him between her thighs, capturing his damp lips in a grateful kiss.

He feels her attempt to pull him into her, her legs wrapping around his hips to lock her heels at his backside, and he arches a brow, bracing himself on his hands either side of her head.

"Ah, a classic..." he quips at the position, his eyes flickering from her own to where his cock twitches with interest, nestled between her folds.

She gives a smirk of her own, shifting her hips in a silent plea for him to get on with it.

"Fast?" he asks, and he sinks inside her.

She gasps as he pulls out and plunges in again, her eyes fluttering as he sets a steady pace.

"Slow," she counters, her hands trailing up his chest to wrap around his shoulders, "like the first time."

He tenses for a moment, _this_ memory pressing too close. It's an ache that tugs at his chest, the memory of how fully she'd given herself to him, a time before they talked themselves out of this. It had been the first time for her, _felt_ like the first time for him, and the memory of how she trusted him, fully and completely, makes him bury his face in her neck.

She cradles his groan in the hollow of her throat.

People come and go, but he'll always have that part of her. She'll always _mean_ something to him, even if that something fluctuates and changes as the years go by. At the crux of it all, they'll always have this, this connection, this burning under the skin.

He pushes it to the back of his mind, taking comfort in the tight, velvet pull of her, of how very good she feels.

He kisses her like he did that first time, soft and gentle and brimming with everything they don't understand, can't bring themselves to say.

"Jon," she gasps his name into his mouth, a husky, broken sound.

"That's it," he hums, fucking her in shallow thrusts, "come on baby, I want to see it again."

His fingers travel to her clit again as he fucks her, his thumb rubbing insistent circles. He watches her face, flushed and desperate and beautiful, and urges her on. He can tell she's close, just a few more thrusts, and he's grateful because he can feel that tight coil in the pit of his own stomach.

"Come on, Sansa," he says, "come for me."

_For me._

She obeys his command, her body pulling taut as a bow and then releasing. Her eyes roll as her orgasm crashes over her, causing her cunt to tighten around him. He bites out a growl, the tightness firing his own orgasm, and he comes inside her in steady, warm spurts.

He rolls off her, lying next to her and raking his fingers through his messy curls.

Silence stretches between them like so many times before.

He doesn't know why this somehow feels different. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... it's been a hot sec, huh? I'm so sorry for the delay, I've had a serious case of the old writer's block. But I made a (hopefully cute) moodboard and it got me in the mood to write again. I hope this chapter was worth the wait lovelies. 
> 
> Stay safe!

"I'm going to have to move to Australia."

Sansa lets out a dramatic moan through the phone as Jon rolls his eyes, imagining the way she's holding her head in her hands.

His lips twitch under his beard, his thumb and index finger coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"I admit it's..." his voice trails off as he tries to find the right word, and he hears her scoff through the phone, " _unfortunate_... but I hardly think moving to Australia is necessary."

There's another scoff as she voices her disbelief.

"Arya saw our _sexts,_ Jon!" she exclaims like he's unaware, like she hasn't been ranting down the phone about it for twenty minutes straight, "there's no way I can _ever_ look her in the eye, _ever_ again."

"Calm down, Sansa," he rumbles "think rationally."

"There's nothing _rational_ about this," she snaps and he recognises the words for their unintended depth, "Oh my _god_ , I called you Daddy."

He has to shift in his seat, wincing at how that _does_ something to him, the word sparking straight to his cock. Even now, when she’s upset and stressed, and just wants him to comfort her.

He’s definitely going to hell.

“How did it even happen?”

Sansa lets out a whimper like she’s dying again.

“We were driving and _Oliver’s Army_ by Elvis Costello came on the radio and she _insisted_ it was Elvis Presley, which is just so fucking stupid, they don’t even _sound_ alike, so we started arguing—"

“—that’s a surprise.”

“—shut up,” she interrupts, “and I was like, just text Jon because I _knew_ you’d have my back because you love old music and you’re not _stupid_. But she didn’t have her phone on her so she just grabbed mine and obviously she could see our message thread and the last ones which were… you know.”

 _I want you to stroke yourself and imagine my tongue, imagine riding my face. Love eating your cute little pussy, baby._

_Fuck Jon, I'm gonna cum._

_Cum for me, daddy._

_Yeah,_ Jon thinks, clearing his throat, _I know._

“I’ll talk to her,” he says—which apparently is the wrong thing to say, because she gives him another one of those incredulous scoffs.

“You’ll just make it worse.”

“Probably,” he concedes with a click of his tongue, not offended in the slightest, “do you want to do it instead?”

There’s silence then.

“Yeah, okay, you can do it.”

She speaks in a grumble and he can just picture the way she’s pouting, stressed and concerned. She’s probably biting the nail of her index finger on her right hand, a habit she’s never quite been able to break, despite doing it so much when she was little, she chipped her tooth and had to get it fixed.

“Don’t bite your nails,” he says softly, and the scoff she gives him is gentler this time. 

“I wasn’t,” she lies.

“Just—” he sighs, running a tired hand over his face, “—don’t stress, Sansa.”

She’s quiet again for a moment and he listens to her breathing level out, soft and gentle through the phone.

He closes his eyes.

It’s nice.

“Okay, Jon.”

“Arya, you’re being ridiculous.”

They’re in the kitchen of the Stark house, but Arya can’t look at him as she pretends to wash up a plate that’s long clean. She scrubs it aggressively, her brows pulled into a frown, and Jon can see how tense she is, the muscles in her back pulled tight.

“It’s so gross,” she’s muttering under her breath, “so fucking gross. I am _traumatised_ , Jon.”

He rolls his eyes, drumming his fingers on the surface of the kitchen table.

“It’s not a big deal,” he tries and he winces at the way she drops the plate, letting it clatter in the sink.

“Not a big deal?” she repeats, turning around and leaning against the counter, “you’re basically my _brother_ , and you’re fucking my _sister_.”

Jon cringes, his nose scrunching in distaste.

“Jesus Christ, you’re making it sound like incest.”

“It _basically_ is.”

“It is not!”

“Well, if there’s nothing wrong with it, why are you keeping it a secret?”

“Because it’s no-one else’s business,” he says, and his tone is harsher than he intended, “and Arya, I love you, but that includes you too. We know what we’re doing—it’s _really_ not a big deal.”

Arya quirks a brow, crossing her arms over her chest and narrowing her eyes.

“Are you fucking serious?” she blurts out after a beat.

“Arya Stark, wash your mouth out. What would your mother say?”

"My mother would have _a lot_ to say about this," she deadpans and he cringes again, practically feeling his balls shrink into his stomach, “but don't try to distract me. Sansa isn’t some random hook up, and neither are you. You’re practically family. _How_ can you possibly think this will end well?”

Jon sits back in his chair, bristling under her scrutiny.

“I know that. I would never treat her like a hook up. I can’t explain it, it just works for us. And who says it’s going to end anyway?”

“You know she’s dating Harry Hardyng now… and even if that doesn’t work…. neither of you are going to get married?” Arya asks dryly, that brow still cocked, “you’re going to stay single forever and just fuck when you feel like it, and never meet anyone else, and never have a family of your own?”

“I don’t know,” Jon murmurs, “I guess I’ve never thought that far ahead.”

She rolls her eyes, flicking her fingers at him and smirking when some water from the washing up gets in his eyes.

He runs a hand over his face, rubbing slightly at his eyes.

“You’re an idiot.”

He stands up, tired and irritated and so _done_ with this conversation.

“Okay, are you finished?”

He doesn’t know what he thought he would achieve by bringing this up with her, by trying to do some damage control. Arya’s pretty much the most stubborn person he’s ever met.

He just did it because Sansa asked him to. If he’s honest with himself, he thinks he’d do anything Sansa asked him to.

As he walks past, he’s surprised when she grabs his arm, her little fingers gently curling around the crook of his elbow.

He stops, his gaze flickering from her eyes to her hand and back again.

“I’m not a child,” she starts, her voice suddenly serious and her dark eyes softened, “and I’m not saying all this to be difficult, or awkward, or to hurt you. Sure, I was pretty _shocked_ to see those messages, and her trying to pretend it was a different Jon was _rather_ lame, but… that isn’t my main reaction. I’m worried. I don’t want this to hurt.”

“I would never hurt her.”

“I was talking about you,” she says softly.

“What do you mean?”

“Sansa’s a tough girl. She survived all those years at med school and everything that asshole Joffrey did to her,” he hates that she said his name and his blood burns too hot in his veins, “Sansa always survives. I’m not saying you’re _not_ strong, because you are, but you never worry about yourself. You’re so wrapped up in what she wants... what about what you want? Because you are a _good_ man. You’re warm and kind and I know you want a family and a wife and everything you never had growing up. I think you’ll want more—I think you’ll be _ready_ for more—before she is. Maybe you already are... and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

He pauses. He’s never thought of it that way. He’s always considered what’s best for her, how to approach her and treat her and hold her, especially after everything she went through with Joffrey.

Maybe there was a time for them once. _Before_ Joffrey, before she became a doctor and he became a cop and everything got too complicated and real. There had been a brief window of opportunity before they talked themselves out of it, a _moment,_ where they could have been more than they were.

But that moment passed, a fluttering veil between them ripped away, and now they’re grown up and all they have is this.

He’s never considered that _he_ might be the weak one—that he might need her more than she needs him.

“It’s not too late,” Arya whispers, reading his mind, her voice heavy with implication.

He forces a smile—because if she’s wrong, that's scary, but if she’s right… that’s somehow worse.

Robb says Sansa’s date with Harry went well—so well they’re going on another one next week—and Jon broods for the entire evening.

He shouldn’t care.

He _doesn’t_ care.

He’s happy for her.

They’re friends and nothing has changed and he needs to get back to normal. He needs to shake it off the way he always does, take a few weeks for the memory of her to fade, to forget the softness of her skin and the taste of her mouth and the sound she makes when she comes.

And _yet_ —when Robb tells him over his pint that she’s seeing the good doctor again, Jon’s fingers itch to strangle something.

He tells himself it’s because people _know_ now, Arya and Margaery. He tells himself that makes it more real.

Then he tells himself he’s a fucking _liar,_ because his _feelings_ are what’s changed and it’s terrifying and illuminating and _that’s_ what’s real.

“You should get out there, man,” Robb’s saying through a mouthful of beer, letting out a little hiss of satisfaction as it flows down his throat.

Jon nods, his finger absentmindedly trailing the edge of his own glass.

“I mean, how long has it been since you’ve been on a date?”

Jon wracks his brain, tries to think, but all he can come up with is, “a while.”

“What about that blonde from the bar the other night?” Robb says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, “she was _fine._ ”

Jon’s mouth quirks without his permission because he’s right; she was a pretty girl.

He’s been so focused on Sansa and his strange, new feelings, he hasn’t allowed himself to think about her. He can’t even remember the name she’d scribbled on a napkin and slid in his pocket.

But he doesn’t understand his own feelings and Sansa’s not _here_. She’s with another man and she’s probably not feeling this way at all and everything’s normal for her.

So when he gets home, he fishes that scrunched up napkin out of his jeans on the bedroom floor, and calls the girl called _Dany._

A week later, he’s leaning against the wall of a fancy restaurant, smoking his second cigarette.

It’s a nasty habit and he really should stop, but he hasn’t been on a date in _so long,_ he isn’t sure what to do. He needs something to settle his nerves, and he didn’t think it would be appropriate to turn up drunk, so the cigarettes would have to do. 

Dany is as beautiful as he remembers—stunning, really—as she steps out of a cab and walks towards him. Her smile is blinding as she embraces him and it feels weird to have to lean down for her cheek, to kiss someone so much smaller than him.

_Stop it._

He promised himself he wouldn’t compare them, wouldn’t think of her at all.

It’s easier said than done, he thinks, as he puts the cigarette out and offers his arm.

As they walk through the restaurant and are seated at their table, Jon isn’t blind to the looks they get. The jealousy vibrates off the women in waves, desire off the men in equal measures. He even sees one woman slap her partner on the arm, her expression livid as she tells him to close his mouth.

Dany is one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen. The cobalt dress she’s wearing accentuates her curves, makes the blue in her eyes pop. Her hair is loose, hanging in soft waves around her heart-shaped face, and when they sit down, the candle on the table bathes her in a soft light.

He can appreciate her beauty – he’s a _man,_ after-all – but as the night goes on, he should appreciate _more_ than that.

He should feel more than he feels.

He doesn't.

 _Stop it,_ he reminds himself again.

“I have to admit,” Dany is speaking, delicately unfolding the napkin on the table and placing it over her lap, “I was beginning to think you would never call.”

“I thought I would play hard to get.”

She laughs at his joke, a small, musical chuckle under her breath.

“It’s okay, I can wait,” she says, a twinkle in her eye like she's aware of the depth to her words, “you’re very handsome.”

“Thanks,” he smiles, then because he feels like he should return the compliment, he says, “you’re beautiful, too. But I guess you know that.”

She doesn’t blush prettily or give him a bashful smile. She doesn’t look arrogant or smug either. She hits that perfect in-between, confident but modest, and he likes her honesty.

He likes _her –_ he just not sure if it’s enough. He knows it's not as much as he should.

Forty minutes later, they're halfway through the main course when his phone vibrates on the table.

Dany – or Daenerys, he’s learned – is just telling him about her upbringing, how she’s an orphan and just as alone as him, and he gives her an apologetic wince.

She bats it away, a friendly smile on her lips.

“Don’t be silly,” she dismisses as she cuts into her chicken, “go ahead and check.”

His eyes drift over the screen.

**Sansa (20:43)** _:  
Wanna come over and watch a movie?_

His stomach twists, a strange pain kicking at him. He feels like he’s going to be sick.

_What the fuck?_

He’s shaken by his reaction, so strong and visceral. It’s seven words and she’s not even here.

Daenerys is here.

She’s a living, breathing woman, lovely and interesting, and he might have her. He’s not a complete idiot; he can read the signals. He’s pretty sure if he put his hand over hers on the table right now, she wouldn't pull away. And if he asked to see her again, she’d say yes, and if he kissed her at the end of the night, she’d kiss him back.

What he and Sansa have is _real_. It’s beautiful and intense and weird and terrifying and sometimes he can’t imagine himself with anyone else.

Ever.

With Daenerys _… this_ could be easier, because he doesn't feel that way. It’s restrained, calmer. Moderate—and that’s better, because it’s fucking _exhausting_ being dragged from the highest highs to the lowest lows.

He didn’t plan on it, but it’s happened, and he needs to see where it’s going to go.

So he pushes down that feeling in the pit of his stomach, and flips his phone over. 

He ignores Sansa’s texts for a week.

He tells himself it’s for the best, just for a little while. Just until things are a little less real, a little less intense and confusing.

Margaery thinks he’s being stupid. He goes to her and Robb’s for dinner and when her fiancé goes to the toilet, she slaps Jon round the back of the head and tells him he’s full of shit. She says that Sansa is worried she’s done something wrong. That makes him feel bad, because it’s shit and clichéd, but it really is him, not her.

He still doesn’t reply when she texts him the next morning.

Sam thinks he’s being unfair, that he can’t just change the rules of their agreement when he promised her they’d always be friends. He tells him they _are_ friends—family—but Sam asks how _she_ knows that, and Jon slams his bedroom door so hard it shakes in the frame. 

Arya thinks he’s being cautious. She says he’s _protecting his heart_ , and he grimaces because he doesn’t want _heart_ and _Sansa_ to be in the same sentence. He wants to continue pushing it down, packing it away in a little box so he doesn’t have to think about it.

On the eighth day, Sansa texts him a sad face and asks what she’s done wrong and his fingers literally _itch_ to reply.

She hasn’t done anything wrong. She isn’t wrong, and he misses her too, but he just can’t sit on the same couch as her and watch a movie and not touch her and kiss her and be with her.

He doesn’t know why it’s changed, when it changed, but the thought of it makes him feel empty, like he’s been hollowed out.

He doesn’t want to make small talk, or smell her hair, or listen to her voice, or hear Harry Hardyng’s name.

He figures he can avoid it, stretch it out for another week or so, until she turns up at his door on Sunday night. He can barely process his surprise before she’s shooting daggers at him and pushing past.

“I’m really angry with you,” she jumps straight to the point, crossing her arms over her chest.

She’s wearing a pale pink jumper that Robb got her for Christmas and her favourite, oldest pair of jeans. She doesn’t need to turn around for him to know there’s a tiny, stubborn stain on the back of the left knee and the bottom part of one of the belt loops is detached. And he doesn’t need to reach out and touch her to know that jumper is worn and thin and soft…

Her hair is loose and swept back from her forehead, the way it is when she’s had a long, hard day and she’s been running her fingers through it.

She looks very tired and his gut churns with guilt and he just wants to put her in his bed and let their fingers touch.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs and he doesn’t even know where to _start_.

She clicks her tongue, averting her eyes, and when she starts talking, he’s horrified to hear her voice break.

He feels like a piece of shit, because this is _Sansa,_ and he was never supposed to hurt her.

He’s known her for her whole life and even before—back when she was rounding Catelyn’s belly and making her glow and making her sick in the morning. He remembers Ned standing him and Robb in the kitchen and telling them that they had to look after her and care for her and love her, _always_. And maybe it’s not the sort of love Ned had in mind, nor the kind _he_ expected, but it happened and he’s never forgotten that promise.

And now here he is, pushing her away and watching her tear up, all because of everything he can’t handle.

“I just—we have _never_ put dates first. Ever. You’ve always said we’re family before anything else,” she says and her tone is fierce, “and I cannot believe you would _ignore_ me just because you’ve got a new girlfriend.”

_Wait, what?_

He freezes, his brain trying to catch up.

“What?”

“Robb told me you’ve been going on dates with that blonde you met the night of his engagement party,” she puts a hand on her hip then, her brow arching, unimpressed, “I’m happy for you, truly. But you _promised_ nothing would change.”

“Daenerys is not my girlfriend,” he takes a step towards her.

She pauses, her jaw flexing.

“I don’t think the label really matters, Jon.”

“It’s not—” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He’s been trying his best; he doesn’t understand how it all got so _fucked,_ “we’ve been on two dates. Really, it’s nothing. That’s not why I’ve been… AWOL.”

“AWOL…” the word catches on a breathy scoff as she repeats it, “you’ve been ignoring me.”

“But that’s not why.”

“Well then why?”

_Fuck._

The question hangs heavy and significant between them. He watches her eyes flicker with _something_ as she swallows.

He really wants to hurl himself out of the window so he can pretend this had never happened to him at all—

His phone rings.

“Answer it,” she says dully, “but after, we are going to have a discussion.”

She sounds deadly serious, her tone clinical, and she sits on his couch and crosses one leg over the other.

He knows she’ll sit there all night if she has to.

He stalks into his room, putting the phone to his ear without checking who it is, and his stomach drops when he hears the voice on the other side.

He feels numb, strangely detached, as he walks back into the living room ten minutes later.

“Right, so I want an explanation from you and I’m not leaving until I get one because you’re incredibly important to me, Jon, and I don’t want anything to change and—are you okay?”

She stands up and pauses halfway through the speech she’s clearly been practising, her lips falling open.

She takes a step towards him and it fucking _kills_ him how she reads his expression.

“Who was that?” she asks softly, all trace of anger gone.

His fingers are still gripping the phone, so tight his knuckles are turning white, and she gently pries them away. She takes the phone and tosses it on the couch, replacing the emptiness with the grip of her own fingers. He lets her hold his hand, closes his eyes against the swipe of her thumb over his palm.

“It was Rhaegar,” he says quietly, “my Dad.”

Her eyes flash with surprise before she gets a hold of herself, her gaze searching his face.

“What did he want?”

He shrugs, tiredly running his other hand over his face.

“Wants me to come to dinner with him. He says he has something important to tell me.”

She searches his face again, characteristically cautious.

“Are you going to go?”

He shrugs again and he has no idea why, but he says—

“Will you come with me?”

He just blurts it out and she looks as surprised to hear it as he is.

He doesn’t know why he says it. All he knows is that he’s _missed_ her and he’ll need her. That she’s the only one who makes him feel better and she's _here_ now and he doesn’t want her to go away again.

And yes, she’s surprised and something new and inexplicable and painful is thrumming under the surface between them , but her response is still immediate.

“Of course, Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S Dany and Rhaegar aren't related for... reasons... :) and I feel I should say this will be the only chapter Dany is in and there won’t be a relationship between her and Jon. Incase anyone’s worried about that.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, I'm back already huns! I was planning on this chapter to be dinner with Rhaegar but this happened instead...🤷🏼♀️ 
> 
> As always, thank you for all the reviews and support, and please please stay safe <3

It’s game night at the Starks and Arya looks at them differently.

Sansa’s in a shocking mood, her eyes narrowed and irritation vibrating off her in waves.

Theon thinks she’s being boring and a stick in the mud, determined to be uptight and ruin everyone’s fun.

Margaery thinks she’s being amusing, teases her and pinches her cheeks and laughs when her perfectly manicured hand gets swatted away.

Robb thinks she’s being a brat.

Jon thinks she’s being all of the above — he also thinks she’s trying to kill him by bringing Harry.

He doesn’t know him, but he fucking _hates_ him.

At dinner, he spoke when he was spoken to and when he did, his voice was quiet and smooth. He sat in the office chair Ned had carried to the table and it didn’t look _right_ , didn’t look natural, with someone else wedged in.

Someone didn’t belong.

He had given Sansa all these little smiles and called her “honey” when he asked her to pass the salt and Jon’s fingers had itched the whole time.

Ned and Catelyn have since gone to bed, meaning the games have started and the drink and cursing flows a little faster. They don’t even consider Monopoly, because Arya loses her temper and flips the board without fail every time. Pictionary lasts for an hour or so but eventually everyone gets frustrated because Bran’s the only one who’s not shit at drawing. Operation doesn’t last long either because Sansa and Harry keep correcting the little metal guy’s anatomy and Robb rolls his eyes and packs it away, moaning at them for ruining the fun.

They settle on a game where band names are in a hat and one person has to pick one and their partner has to guess the name.

Arya and Jon are winning like always, their connection so strong, Robb swears they can read each other’s minds, and he’s pathetically pleased that Sansa and Harry are last.

It’s their turn next and Jon sits back in his chair, his finger trailing absentmindedly around the rim of his scotch glass.

Sansa picks a piece of paper out and opens it, wincing slightly as she probably thinks Harry won’t be able to guess. 

Theon slams his hand down on the timer and shouts “go!”

“Um, two words,” Sansa starts hesitantly, “first word is my favourite colour, second is the first name of a famous boxer.”

Harry looks a little like a deer caught in headlights.

“Uh… Green Day?”

Jon fights the urge to roll his eyes. There isn’t a boxer called _Day_ anything _,_ that’s not even a name, and Sansa’s favourite colour is pink.

She shakes her head, tries to think of something else, then settles on “pass”.

 _Pink Floyd,_ Jon thinks silently.

“Pink Floyd,” she says as she picks another piece of paper out, “you know, Floyd Mayweather.”

Harry’s cheeks tint slightly. “Oh yeah, of course.”

“Okay…” she drawls, her tone slightly lighter like he should know this one, “American, 70s and 80s, _psycho killer, once in a lifetime_ …”

“Stalking Heads!” Harry blurts out happily, oblivious to the way Margaery snickers behind her hand and slaps Robb’s arm when he snorts.

“Yeah,” Sansa smiles gently, putting the piece of paper down. She reaches into the hat again and Jon’s brows furrow.

“Uh, no,” he says, harsher than even he intended, and he feels eyes snap to him, “it’s _Talking_ Heads.”

Sansa rolls her eyes.

“Who cares? You know what he meant.”

Jon doesn’t _know_ why he cares, why it matters. All he knows is that it _does_ and he feels his temper rush and flare like a living thing.

“ _I_ care – because it’s wrong.”

It’s silent for a moment, the tick of the timer hanging awkwardly in the air. His eyes lock with Sansa’s, stubborn and unyielding, and she matches his intensity, refusing to back down.

Harry looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole. Robb and Bran look confused. Theon looks amused.

Arya looks a mixture of both, and Margaery looks infuriatingly, maddeningly _knowing._

“Jon, you don’t have to be a dick,” Theon rolls his eyes as the timer runs out, beeping in a harsh trill, “you and Arya are like ten points ahead, you’re gonna win anyway.”

“That’s not the point,” he bites out because it’s not.

“What _is_ the point?” Sansa asks, her eyes blazing.

_Fuck._

“Why play at all if you’re not going to play properly?”

"Also, _technically,_ you’re not supposed to give song titles,” Arya chimes in because she actually _is_ concerned with winning.

“Shut up, Arya,” Sansa grits out, her stormy eyes never leaving Jon’s, “Theon’s right. You _are_ being a dick.”

“At least I’m not a cheat.”

Sansa’s eyes flicker at that, the air between them heavy with a significance only they can understand.

They all stare at him, unblinking and confused, as Sansa stands up. She runs her hands over her thighs, brushing away invisible fluff, before she storms off with a muttered “excuse me.”

It’s silent for a moment.

Harry still looks like he wants to die, Margaery purses her lips like she’s in on a secret she’s not sharing, and Jon wonders why the fuck he did that. Finally, Robb exhales on an exaggerated breath.

“O- _kaaaay_ ,” he drawls, “I think it’s safe to say that game’s over, thank you Jon. Shall we just put some music on and get drunk?”

There are murmurs of assent and relief as Theon and Arya go to fetch some more beers and Robb lowers himself to the floor to sit on the bean bag next to Harry. He attempts to make small talk, characteristically cheerful and warm and kind.

Margaery sips at her glass of wine, peering at him over the rim. Her perfect brow is arched and her eyes flare with curiosity.

She sees straight through him and Jon practically _burns_ under it.

He knows what she’s trying to say – and he stands to follow Sansa.

He finds her in the bathroom upstairs, her fingers curling into the sink.

She hasn’t bothered to lock the door, or even close it, and his gut flares with guilt again as he watches her reflection in the mirror in-front of her. Her eyes are cast down to the sink and she’s hunched over, her breathing heavier than usual.

His chest feels too tight and he wonders when he started fucking everything up.

His eyes and throat burn and he can’t _breathe,_ because he can’t move on. Because she still makes him nervous when she walks in a room, and he always, _always_ wants to be around her and everything brings him back to her.

It’s just the way it is, the way it’s probably always been. Maybe he’s only allowing himself to see it now, as he stands behind her and sees her through the mirror, beautiful and unreachable.

She must sense his presence because her eyes flicker up and connect with his.

“What do you want?” her reflection asks as he takes a step inside and closes the door.

He locks it behind him, because he doesn’t know what’s going to happen, but he figures they’ll need some privacy.

He approaches her slowly, like a startled deer who could bolt any minute.

“Sansa…”

She whips around, her hands curling into the sink behind her.

“You’re an asshole.”

He quirks a brow.

“Excuse me?”

“You ignore me for _weeks_ without telling me what I’ve done wrong - which is nothing, by the way,” she starts, fire in her eyes, “then you’re nothing but rude to Harry even though he’s done nothing wrong either. But you still expect me to go to dinner with you and your father tomorrow. Seems to me like you only want me around when it suits you.”

He clenches his jaw, averting his eyes, because she’s right to be angry, but the reasons _why_ are wrong – because he _always_ wants her around, and that doesn’t suit him at all.

“I’m sorry if I made him feel uncomfortable,” he says—even though he’s not, “and I’m sure he’s a really great guy, and he’s a doctor and your mother loves him… but you don’t want him.”

She blinks at him as ten different emotions flicker over her face. She settles on annoyance, crossing her arms over her chest and narrowing her gaze.

“Oh really?” she deadpans, “and how do you know that?”

“Because you want me.”

She falters at that, her eyes darkening and her lips falling open. He takes a step closer, his mind flooding before it goes blank.

There’s no thought, no history, no rationality — there’s only her.

Something dark passes over her face then, her expression turning hard and her jaw clenching to match his.

She’s so stubborn, so unyielding, unwilling to break or bend. He wants to shake her — wants to make her _see._

“Are you jealous?” she asks eventually, her tone half-way between curious and hesitant, and she looks nervous and pale, like she doesn’t want to know the answer.

He gives it anyway.

“What if I am?”

He watches the movement of her throat as she swallows, her arms slowly unfolding as he takes one more step towards her. He can feel her now, her softness, her warmth, as her fingers return to the sink behind her. She grips it so hard he can see her knuckles turning white and he gently reaches for her, his hand curling around the crook of her elbow.

"Do you have any idea what it’s like..." he starts, voice low and quiet, "to think about you the way I do?”

A muscle in her jaw jumps, her pupils blown to black and flickering from his eyes to his mouth and back again, and fuck, he _knows_ that look.

He searches her face and sees it again _—_ full of fire and want and frustration.

It’s the look she got the very first time he had her, when she sat cross-legged on the pink sheets in her childhood bedroom down the hall and said she wanted it to be him. It’s the look she gets just before they start things up again, or after a week of her period. It’s the look she gets when she hasn’t gotten laid, only it’s magnified, scorching and painful.

It’s the look of a sexually frustrated Sansa, and Margaery had said her and Harry hadn’t had sex yet, but it feels good to see anyway.

The hand on her elbow stays there as his other one comes up to cup her cheek.

“No,” she says quietly, but she doesn’t move.

He stills as the atmosphere blazes, thrumming like a living thing, the air white hot between them.

 _Can’t you feel this?_ the words lodge in his throat, something painful and desperate, and when her eyes flicker up to him, her pupils are dilated and her bottom lip trembles.

His hand drops from her face, but she says “no” again. This time, it’s for a different reason, and her hips undulate against the sink.

She’s tilting them towards him slightly and he knows what she wants, reads her like a book. He doesn’t break eye contact, electricity sparking between them still, as hooks his fingers into the waistband of her jeans and tugs her to him. Then, he unbuttons them and slips his hand inside.

“Fuck,” she hisses before sucking in a breath over her teeth, her eyes fluttering shut.

He keeps his eyes on her face as two fingers slide up and down her slit.

“You’re soaked,” he leans in and mutters into her hair, feeling the way her panties are practically stuck to her lower lips, the material clinging and dripping wet. She moans — a breathy, wanton sound — and those two fingers spread her wetness before dipping inside.

She gasps on a shaky breath, spreading her legs wider. One hand stays curled around the sink as the other comes to grip his bicep, her nails digging in and moving with his arm as he fucks her with his fingers.

His other hand curls around her neck, bringing her face closer to his, dark eyes blazing.

Their breaths dance in the gap between them, their mouths brushing hotly, sliding together but not quite connecting.

He alternates between circling her clit and thrusting his fingers inside her, gently crooking them and finding that spongy spot that makes her gasp. He flicks her clit, puts pressure against it, feels her stomach clench against him. Her eyes are hooded, her tongue brushing his mouth when it peeks out to wet her bottom lip, and he’s so hard it’s practically painful.

But he’s focused on her pleasure. He wants her to see. He wants her to _understand —_ it’s not always like this. This is _them_ , and they’re perfect, and they shouldn’t be with anyone else. He uses his body to say it, because that’s all he knows, and he wants — _needs_ — to feel her shatter beneath him.

Normally, they’re vocal in bed. For such a sullen and serious person, she seems to bring it out of him, and he finds himself muttering the filthiest things in her ear. She normally gives as good as she gets, tells him how big and good he feels inside her, how he fucks her so well, calls him daddy and begs for faster, harder, more.

But now, they’re silent and it’s somehow hotter, the atmosphere heady and intense around them. He can hear the lewd sounds of his fingers fucking her, the aggressive rustling of clothes as his elbow moves, but save for some heavy breaths, they don’t make a sound.

Until—

“Come on, baby,” he pants hotly in her ear, practically begging for it, “come on my fingers.”

She does, her body pulling taut like a bow until it snaps. She comes all over his fingers in a wet gush, coating them, and his hips stutter with a groan without his permission, desperate to be inside her. There are tears in her eyes as she breaks apart, her thighs trembling, little broken gasps falling from her lips.

He pulls his hand out of her pants and licks his fingers clean.

He doesn’t feel particularly triumphant as he watches a million emotions flicker over her face. She looks satisfied, her cheeks a rosy pink, but she also looks guilty and confused and they’ve never done this before.

It’s silent for a moment, both of them contemplating what just happened, before she surprises him by gently bringing her hand up to his face. There are tears in her eyes and she gives him a watery smile, the air heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.

She softly touches her fingers to his cheek and he feels his own eyes burn.

Eventually, his phone buzzes with a text and he pulls it out.

**Arya (21:34)  
** _They’re all asking about you. You should let Sansa come down first._

She leaves him with another pat of his cheek and there’s an ache where her hands once were.

He breaks up with Daenerys the next day.

He’s not sure whether ending it after two dates can be called a ‘break up’ but it doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel fair, to keep seeing her when he knows his heart is somewhere else.

He’s been so focused on what he wants, what would be easier for him, he lost sight of the kind of man he is.

She takes it well as he explains himself over coffee, clearly disappointed but grateful he didn’t let it go on any longer than necessary. She wishes him well and he gives her a kiss on the cheek and that’s that.

He doesn’t know what Sansa’s doing with Harry, if she’s told him what happened in the bathroom or the history between them. All he knows is he needs to stop letting his feelings for her cloud his judgement.

He can’t control what she does, but he can control what _he_ does, and he doesn’t want to continue making the wrong decisions.

Margaery stops by his apartment about an hour before Sansa’s meant to arrive for dinner, turning up on his doorstep and letting herself in without so much as a hello.

“Sure Marg, just come on in…” Jon mutters dryly, closing the door behind her.

She turns around, crossing her arms over her chest and giving him a once over.

“You look very handsome,” her lilting voice says, “going anywhere nice?”

“Just dinner.”

“With Sansa and your Dad?”

He balks slightly, arching a brow as he adjusts his cufflinks.

“Why’d you ask if you already know?”

She gives a little shrug, taking a step towards him.

“I’m just going to cut to the chase,” she starts, arching a perfect brow, “you’re in love with Sansa and the sooner you admit it, the sooner this whole mess can get straightened out,” she holds a manicured hand out when he opens his mouth to reply, “and before you deny it, just — don’t deny it. If it wasn’t already painfully obvious, it certainly was after your caveman display yesterday. To be honest, I’m surprised you didn’t just piss on her.”

He shakes his head, his defensive walls flying up around him.

“Okay fine, that was shitty of me, but you know as well as I do that he isn’t right for her.”

“Because he’s not you?”

He falters, her words pressing too close. Margaery sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger.

When she looks at him again, her eyes swim with equal parts passion and frustration.

“I know you don’t want to listen to me. I don’t like to listen to people either, but I know you and I know Sansa and I’ve seen how great you are together. You know she’s scared. She doesn’t do anything without planning it first and after everything she’s been through, she’s scared of getting hurt again. You’re going to have to make the first move, and if you don’t — if you don’t reach out and take this chance — you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life,” she pauses for a moment, her eyes shining with a seriousness he rarely sees from her, “Jon, that girl loves you. She really, really loves you and I don’t know if she did before, but she sure as hell does now. I’m telling you… don’t fuck this up.”

He stares at her, not knowing what to say. His eyes and throat burn and there’s a twisting in his gut and she’s _right._

He’s in love with Sansa.

The realisation hits him with a strange sort of intensity, a mixture of grief and relief. He should have said it before. He should have realised it before, because he can’t sleep and he can’t eat and he can’t _breathe_ and he loves her. He probably always has.

He can’t carry on like this, having none of her or half of her, but never all of her. He can’t hide anymore.

He feels strangely choked as he practically _grabs_ Margaery, placing a fierce kiss on her forehead.

She laughs in surprise, her hands anchoring themselves on his waist.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against her skin and prepares himself for the war to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank the gods for Margaery Tyrell, am I right? 
> 
> Dinner with Rhaegar and a big, long overdue conversation next...🤭


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is some angsty shit, you have been warned, I blame the quarantine💔but don't worry, I'm all about the angst with a happy ending.

“You have to relax.”

As Jon stares at the candle in the middle of the table, he thinks he hears Sansa’s voice beside him. It sounds too far away, like he’s under water, and he shakes himself out of it, turning to her with a forced smile.

“Sorry,” he grimaces, “just nervous.”

The smile she gives him is devastatingly soft and understanding. His fingers are strumming incessantly on the table and she places her own over his, her thumb rubbing gently over the back of his hand. He calms almost immediately and shakes that off too, his recent revelation regarding how he feels about her burning at the front of his mind.

He can’t think about that right now.

Not when his father is entering the restaurant and throwing the waitress a devastating smile. Jon fights the urge to roll his eyes as he flirts under the pretence of giving his name. He sees the waitress blush, because his father might be in his late fifties now, but he’s still an attractive man, and point in their direction.

Then he’s striding towards the table, so confident and self-assured and _Rhaegar_.

Jon stands, straightening his jacket slightly as his father reaches them. Sansa rises too and out of the corner of his eye, he sees her brush some invisible fluff off her blood red dress.

“Hello son,” Rhaegar drawls as he reaches them. Jon thinks it a strange greeting, because _yes,_ he made him, but he’s never been there. He’s never loved him the way a father should. He gives him a tight smile and a clinical shake of his hand, bristling when his blue eyes drag to Sansa.

“I didn’t realise you were bringing company,” he says lightly and Jon can practically _see_ the cogs in his head turning as he tries to place her, “Sarah, right? Ned’s girl.”

The smile she sends him is just as tense.

“Sansa,” she corrects smoothly.

“Ah yes, of course,” he says, not sounding bothered that he’d got it wrong, and as they all sit down he adds, “an unusual name… I suppose we have that in common. Guess you can’t relate to that, Jon!”

He says it with a laugh but Jon stiffens again because he’d had no say in his naming at all. He had left that to Lyanna when he’d left _her,_ pregnant and devastated and alone in the world. Jon hadn’t even known of his existence until he was three years old, and he can count on his hands the number of times he’s seen him since.

The waitress comes over to take their drink order.

Rhaegar flirts with her as well and orders red wine and Jon thinks this was a fucking mistake.

“I have to say, son, you’ve done very well for yourself,” Rhaegar says once the wine has arrived and he begins to pour it in Sansa’s glass, “you’re quite the beauty.”

Sansa’s lips twitch into a smooth smile and Jon clenches his jaw.

“We’re just friends,” he says, but the words ring hollow.

“I’m here for support,” Sansa adds quietly.

“Support?” Rhaegar stares at her for moment, a displeased expression flashing over his features before he gives a humourless laugh, “what do you think I’m going to do to you, Jon?”

“Can you blame me for being suspicious?” Jon fires back, his brow quirked, “we’re hardly close, _Dad._ ”

Rhaegar quirks a brow of his own but he doesn’t look offended. He acts like he hasn’t even heard it, and Jon thinks the whole thing is passive aggressive bullshit.

“Well, Sansa… what do you do?” he's still talking to Sansa as he pours Jon’s wine, “I’m assuming you’re a model?”

Jon fights the urge to roll his eyes and he feels Sansa’s hand on his thigh, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

“I’m a doctor,” she replies with another tight smile, “I work in paediatric oncology at the moment.”

A flash of surprise passes over Rhaegar’s face before he gives a low whistle.

“Very impressive,” he coos, “I would hold onto this one, Jon.”

Jon grits his teeth because he hasn’t listened _again,_ and takes a sip of wine. He’s grateful for the soothing taste as it makes his way down his throat and he’s just about to ask what the hell this is all about when the waitress comes over again, ready to take their food orders.

He orders the steak, Rhaegar does the same, and Sansa settles on a vegetarian pasta.

Finally, after ten minutes of small talk, Jon decides to cut to the chase.

“Why did you want to see me?” he asks quietly, “it’s been years.”

Rhaegar has the sense to look a little ashamed, shifting in his seat. He adjusts his tie slightly, clearing his throat, before he takes a sip of wine.

“I know I haven’t been the best father to you, Jon,” he starts and Jon fights the urge to laugh, “but I have some news that I’d like to share with you.”

Jon’s eyes shift to Sansa and he finds her already looking at him. She looks beautiful, apprehensive and concerned for him and half bathed in candlelight. It’s the first time he’s seen her since he realised the depth of his feelings, and he doesn’t love her any less. 

“What is it?” he asks Rhaegar tiredly, somehow already knowing he isn’t going to like what he says.

Rhaegar smiles, something off putting and insincere.

“I’m divorcing Elia,” he says without missing a beat and he doesn’t wait for their surprised reactions before he’s continuing in a clinical tone, “I’ve met someone else who I love and we’re expecting a baby.”

Silence falls over the table.

Jon blinks; he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

He repeats the words in his head—

_I’m divorcing Elia._

_I’ve met someone else._

_We’re expecting a baby._

—but he can’t quite register them. They don’t make sense.

He can feel the heat of their eyes on him and Sansa’s hand squeezes his thigh again. He brings his own down to cover it, entwining their fingers, like he needs her to keep him grounded.

“Umm.. congratulations?” Sansa says eventually, clearing her throat, and it sounds like a question.

“Thank you, Sansa,” Rhaegar says, a pleased note lining his tone, “Jon, do you have anything you want to say to me?”

Jon blinks again, his mind blank, before he finally digs the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“What the fuck?” he mutters eventually, flatly.

Rhaegar huffs a laugh.

“Not quite what I was expecting…”

Jon brings his hands down, a storm brewing behind his eyes. He still can’t say anything. He can’t even _think._

Rhaegar starts talking again, taking the napkin on the table and laying it across his lap.

“I had hoped you would be rational about this. It’s a good thing. I’m happy – and you’re going to be a big brother.”

Jon’s eyes widen, suddenly finding the salt and pepper shakers in the middle of the table very interesting, and he still can’t speak, so Sansa clears her throat. He grabs his wine and takes a healthy gulp.

“What, um—” she struggles with her words for a moment, “—what did you want to gain exactly by telling Jon this?”

“Well, I want his blessing.”

Jon chokes on the wine.

Sansa’s eyes drag from Rhaegar to him and back again.

As she speaks, his father strums his fingers on the table, the wine glass resting in the webbing between his index and middle, and Jon notices then that he’s not wearing a ring.

“Really?” Sansa's tone is flat, unimpressed, “you’ve done to another woman what you did to his mother… only this time you’re actually divorcing your wife… and you want his blessing?”

Rhaegar stiffens at the mention of Lyanna, his eyes flaring with unmistakable anger. _Good,_ Jon thinks. He wants to him to be angry, wants to him to feel something, wants him to break like he’s broken him all his life.

“I’ve learned from my mistakes.”

Jon’s pretty much always thought of himself as a mistake but the word still cuts like ice, and he feels Sansa bristle. 

“I’m sorry—” she starts, not sounding sorry at all, “—I know we don’t really know each other, but you really are unbelievable. I mean, you’ve never been there for him. Even if you _do_ by some miracle become a good father after all these years, how do you think that will make him feel? Watching you play happy families with what —I’m sorry but I can only assume — is some twenty year old girl. He’s more than a _test run._ ”

Jon arches a brow, his eyes searching her curiously.

She looks angry, her jaw set tight and her brows furrowed, and _fuck,_ he loves her.

He squeezes her hand and sighs.

“Sansa, you don’t have to—”

“No, Jon,” she says passionately before turning back to a stunned Rhaegar, “he needs to hear this. _My_ family raised him. You didn’t even come to his mother’s funeral. And it’s ridiculous that you’re trying to start over and have a second chance at a kid, because even putting aside the two children you already have with your poor wife, you have an _amazing_ son right here. He’s always been right here — and he’s kind and clever and the best man I’ve ever known. And maybe I shouldn’t be saying all this, but he’s not going to, so I have to.”

She's furious, passionate and defensive, and if he wasn’t sure he loved her before, he is now. His chest feels too tight, his words lodged in his throat, and his fingers tighten around hers.

Rhaegar looks more shocked than angry, and after a moment of silence, he clears his throat.

“Well, do _you_ have anything to say, Jon?”

Jon drags his eyes back to his father — this man who’s never done anything for him. He would have promised this new woman the world, just as he promised Lyanna, and he has no doubt that he’ll just end up leaving her too. Sometimes you can’t fix people, no matter how much you try, and Jon realises he doesn’t _want_ to try.

Ned’s the only father he’s ever known.

“No,” he says eventually, standing up just as the waitress reaches their table with the food, “I think that pretty much covers it.”

Then he takes Sansa’s hand and walks away from Rhaegar Targaryen for the last time.

“What a piece of shit.”

Sansa’s mumbling through a mouthful of her veggie burger, shaking her head.

Jon stares at her, his fingers strumming absentmindedly along the steering wheel, his own food untouched in his lap. He should have known better than to drive them to the restaurant; even if it hadn’t gone _that_ way, one glass of wine was never going to be enough to get through a dinner with his father.

And now here they are, in the parking lot of some shitty fast food place, no steak or vegetarian pasta in sight.

She’s still wearing that red dress and she still looks beautiful and how he feels about her burns on the tip of his tongue.

“Thank you,” he murmurs eventually, running a tired hand over his face, “for everything you said tonight.”

“I meant it,” she answers immediately, glancing at him, her face half bathed in the moonlight that streaks through the car window, “Jon, I can’t imagine how painful that must have been for you to hear. I can’t believe he thinks he can just walk back into your life after all these years, and you’d be _happy_ that he’s had _another_ affair.”

Jon shakes his head because the whole thing is very ridiculous indeed.

“I feel more sorry for Elia,” he says, “and Rhaenys and Aegon. Stupid fucking names.”

Sansa snorts a laugh, shaking her head slightly. He has tentative relationships with his half brother and sister and they live half a world away, and he doesn’t really feel like becoming a brother again at the age of twenty eight.

“Are you alright?” she asks eventually, resting her half eaten burger in her lap. 

Jon runs a hand through his hair and realises he is.

His father is a piece of shit but outside of that, he’s happy and he’s safe and he’s loved. He stopped longing for his affection a long time ago, and he knows this child will only follow the same path he had because Rhaegar is incapable of change.

“I’m fine,” he says honestly, “I don’t even know why I agreed to see him, or what I expected.”

“Why did you ask me?” she asks, “why didn’t you ask that blonde you’re seeing – Dany, is it?”

“I ended things with her.”

“Why?”

_Because I’m in love with you._

“It just… wasn’t right,” he settles on instead. “I’m glad it was you who came.”

"Really?”

“Well, how else would I have found out that I’m the _best man you’ve ever known_?” he says it with a lopsided grin, arching a brow, but Sansa’s expression remains serious.

“You are,” she says gently, “I can’t remember a time when you weren’t there for me. Every good memory I have… involves you in some way.”

He feels her words in his chest, something like a dull ache.

“Me too.”

“Jon…” she pauses for a moment and her eyes screw shut, like she’s not sure she should say it. When they open again, her walls are back up and her smile is tight, “I hope you know what you mean to me.”

He doesn't think that's what she was going to say.

The smile he gives her is just as tight, because he _doesn’t_ know, and isn’t that the point?

He wants to tell her.

He wants to tell her that she shouldn’t be with Harry because she should be with him, and that he’s in love with her and he’s always been in love with her. It’s just taken him a while to catch up.

He wants to tell her that he understands why she’s nervous and he’s nervous too, but if they took that step, he would _never_ hurt her.

But he can’t tell her.

Not now.

Not in the parking lot of a fast food restaurant with burger grease on their hands.

He puts the car into reverse, takes her home, and tries to pretend he’s not a coward.

“Have you told her yet?” Margaery asks a week later when he’s in their apartment and Robb's in the bathroom.

He sighs and his brows pull into a frown, his middle finger coming to scratch in-between them.

“No.”

Margaery rolls her eyes and he can tell she’s about to ask why when her phone pings with a text. She holds a finger up, as if to say this conversation isn’t over, and reaches into her pocket. Her eyes drift over the screen before her lips twitch into a characteristic smirk.

“Well, now’s your chance,” she says lightly, “she’s outside right now.”

“What, why?”

“She wants to borrow my earrings. She has a _date._ ”

Jon frowns, grumbling under his breath.

“A date _you_ need to stop,” she clarifies, her brow arching in a dare.

Jon scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m not her keeper.”

“No, you’re not,” Margaery says dryly, “you’re just an idiot.”

She turns on her heel and Robb returns, slouching back on the couch and picking up his Xbox controller, then there’s a knock and Margaery’s opening the door.

Sansa’s on the other side, a bright smile on her face. She’s wearing a black dress that clings to all the right places and her hair is perfectly curled and her lips are red and Jon can barely look at her.

“I think they’re in my room,” Margaery says, opening the door wider so she can come inside. Sansa follows her to her room and gives Jon a nod when she notices him. He mumbles something in reply and Robb just grunts.

He sits back, his controller in his lap, and runs a hand over his face.

“Oh! Actually… I think they might be in the living room,” Margaery’s voice rings out unnecessarily loud from her bedroom, her tone exaggerated, and Jon narrows his eyes suspiciously, “I was wearing them the other night when Robb and I went to dinner and we got home and… well, we just couldn’t make it to the bedroom. They’re probably somewhere in the sofa…”

“I _really_ don’t need to know,” Jon hears Sansa’s unimpressed voice, imagines the way she’s screwing her nose up in disgust.

“I’ll be right back.” Margaery says – and then she’s in the living room, widening her eyes and gesturing to the bedroom.

Jon arches a brow but stands with a huff, walking over to her while Robb remains oblivious, hell bent on killing zombies.

“That should buy you some time,” she quirks a brow as he passes her, before her voice turns gentle and she whispers, “ _tell her_.”

Jon’s mouth twitches under his beard and he wonders when Margaery Tyrell became his number one ally. If this goes well, he thinks he owes her a lot. And even if it doesn’t, he still owes her, because without her, he might have been weak forever.

At least he knows how he feels now, even if Sansa doesn’t feel the same. 

But he thinks she might.

She’s always been impossible to read, so guarded and careful about expressing her feelings. But sometimes she looks at him like she can’t see anything else. She’s reserved by nature, stoic and closed off, and she doesn’t give everything, but she always gives _some,_ and that has to _mean_ something. 

“Hey,” he murmurs quietly as he walks in and shuts the door behind him.

Sansa turns, surprised.

“Oh, hello,” she says, “you okay?”

“Yeah,” he clears his throat before flicking a thumb behind him, “Margaery’s looking for those earrings in the living room.”

It’s a bit of a pointless statement, something she already knew, but she smiles and nods anyway.

“Yeah, they’re just a lot nicer than anything I own.”

His lips twitch but it’s not quite a smile.

“You look nice,” he says eventually, “beautiful, actually.”

Sansa smiles gently, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear.

“Thank you,” she says, “what are you up to tonight?”

“Just playing video games... planning Robb’s bachelor party.”

“Oh my god, don’t even remind me,” she grimaces slightly, “I have no idea what to do for Margaery’s, and you know she’ll be expecting something so extra.”

Jon smirks despite himself.

“You got any good numbers for strippers?”

She laughs, her eyes twinkling, and his chest tightens.

“Are you still feeling okay about your Dad?” she asks eventually, taking a seat on the bed. She crosses her legs and he catches a glimpse of her milky thigh as the dress rides up. He clenches his jaw, remembering what those thighs look like hitched over his hip or his shoulder as he fucks her, or trembling around his head as he licks at her cunt.

He shakes himself out of it.

“Yeah, I feel fine,” he says because he does – about _that_ at least, “I wanted to thank you again for coming with me. It meant a lot to hear you say those things.”

“We’ve been through a lot over the years, haven’t we?” she replies, her voice quiet and introspective, “I know it’s totally shit what he did, and I’m so sorry for what happened to your Mum, but I can’t imagine what my life would have been like without you. I’m glad you found us.”

Jon swallows past the lump in his throat, feeling overwhelmed. He needs to tell her. He can’t carry on like this, paralysed by fear and their memories and scared of letting go.

“I am too,” he says, “and I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

“What is it?”

He shifts on his feet slightly, taking a step towards her.

“It’s about… us,” he says eventually and sees the first flicker of uncertainty pass through her eyes, “what happened in the bathroom the other day…”

He practically _sees_ her walls come up, her back straightening.

“That was wrong,” she says automatically, robotically, “I’m sorry – we got carried away. It’s _natural_ , considering our history. We make each other feel good and that’s… _good…_ but we agreed it would stop.”

Jon stares at her, something rising from the pit of his stomach.

“Who are you trying to convince?”

He watches the movement of her throat as she swallows.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jon laughs bitterly, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. When he brings his hands down, he imagines he looks conflicted and sad and very, _very_ tired.

“Yes, you do.”

She shifts on the bed slightly, wringing her hands in her lap.

“I know this is hard for you,” he starts quietly, “and I don’t want to hurt you, but it needs to be said. We’ve danced around it for long enough. I mean — am I _wrong?_ Something is happening here, between us, and you know it.”

Her bottom lip trembles slightly and she looks like she wants him to stop talking, but the floodgates have been opened and he just _can’t._

“I don’t want to wait around until this thing with Harry ends, because it will end, because you’re not meant for him. You’re meant for me. And I don’t want parts of you anymore. I want _all_ of you, you and me, every day. Sansa, I’m in love—”

“Stop it.”

Her hands are clenched into fists and she looks like he just kicked her in the stomach.

She won't let him say it.

“What?”

She looks up at him, fire behind her eyes.

“Why are you messing everything up?”

“I’m _not._ ”

“You _are_ ,” she says fiercely, “what’s wrong with what we’re doing? It’s _working_ —”

“—is it?” he interrupts, his voice sharp, and he thinks about his dad again, “because I don’t think it is. Because being your dial-a-fuck is fun and all, but I think we both deserve more from the relationships we can choose.”

She stands up, heading for the door, and as she passes, he can see her eyes shining with barely restrained tears.

“Sansa…” he reaches for her, his hand curling around the crook of her elbow.

“No, Jon,” she turns and her voice breaks, “I _can’t._ You’re too important. If I lost you, it would _destroy_ me. And if it went wrong... Dad and Arya and Robb… they’d never forgive me.”

“Who says you’re gonna lose me, or that it will go wrong?” he frowns, “and this isn’t about your Dad or Arya or Robb or _anyone_ else… it’s about you and me. Do you love me?”

She purses her lips, tears glittering on her flushed cheeks.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is,” he laughs a little, but there’s no humour in it, “because if you do, we can figure all the other shit out.”

She cries when he says the words, a sob catching in her throat, and he barely registers walking them backwards until her back is hitting the bedroom door. Her hands curve up his chest, bunching his shirt in her fists, and his own hands travel to her face.

He cups it, touching his forehead to hers.

“I love you,” he says again and it feels like a decades’ old weight has been lifted, “I’m in love with you.”

Then he kisses her.

He pushes her against the door and he can taste her tears but she kisses him back. Her mouth opens for him and he slips his tongue inside, desperate for her. She slants her mouth over his just as eagerly, pulling him in, and he swallows her little gasps.

He’s kissed her a thousand times over the years, but this feels different. He can feel her lips trembling under his and he can feel her slipping away, retreating, even as she’s here with him.

It’s not the kiss he’s longed for. It’s the kiss he’s been dreading since she was seventeen. 

She breaks away first and he leans his forehead against hers.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs heavily, his fingers flexing against the door, “don’t go with him.”

Sansa freezes and he realises she’s shaking.

“Jon…”

“Stay,” he repeats it, his eyes shut, “please stay with me.”

She can’t look at him as she reaches down for the handle and opens the door.

"I can't."

Then she leaves, without the earrings, and takes whatever’s left of him with her.


	9. Chapter 9

Jon doesn’t speak to Sansa for two months.

It’s not like it’s easy — it’s really hard. She calls a few times, texts a few more, but he can’t answer. He doesn’t want to hurt her, but it’s self-preservation, and he doesn’t have the strength to face her.

He doesn’t ask about her. In-fact, he asks Margaery and Arya to ignore him if he caves and _does_ ask about her. He knows he won’t be able to ignore her forever, but for now, it’s easy and it’s necessary.

It’s Robb’s bachelor party, and he’s drunk, the first time his fingers type out a message.

He types something and deletes it five times over, cringing more and more each time.

_Hi._

_Hey, how are you?_

_I’m sorry. I take it all back. I want to go back._

_I miss you._

_I still love you and I hate you a bit too – but mostly I just really, really miss you._

He cringes again and runs a tired hand over his face – then he forces himself to put the phone face down on the bar.

It’s difficult, not having her there as his anchor. Since they were children, he’s told her everything. Last week, he got a promotion and they closed a case they’d been working on for months, but as everyone celebrated, he just felt cold, empty – because he couldn’t tell her. He feels untethered, tiny parts of him slipping away the further he distances himself from her, and a tiny, dark part of him wishes he’d never said anything at all.

Two hands clasping down on his shoulders interrupts his sulking.

“It is literally against the _law_ for you to be miserable on my bachelor party,” Robb declares, slurring his words slightly as he practically falls onto the barstool next to him, “I mean, you’re the cop, you really should know that.”

Jon smirks, rolling his eyes and using his knuckles to push his beer towards him.

“Shut up and drink.”

Robb grins, knocking it back. He looks carefree and drunk and happy, and Jon’s almost jealous.

Theon’s behind them, hitting on two poor unsuspecting women, and a few guys from Robb’s work are playing darts and pool. Jon’s eyes are drawn to Sam who sits nervously next to Bran, trying to make conversation.

“Sam looks like he’s gonna shit himself,” he laughs, shaking his head slightly.

Bran’s still a couple years off legal, so Sam keeps glancing nervously around the bar, terrified they’ll be found out, the fake ID Arya got him flung in their faces.

Robb follows Jon’s gaze and gives an easy laugh.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have put him on Bran duty.”

“It’s more like Bran on _Sam_ duty,” Jon rolls his eyes, “are you having a good time at least?”

Robb nods, his eyes slightly glassy, a dopey smile on his face.

“I am. Thanks, Jon. I don’t wanna get all _deep,_ but thank you for organising everything — and just… for being there, _always_. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

Jon smiles, a warmth in his chest.

“You too, man.”

Robb averts his gaze then, a sudden look of realisation sparking over his features.

“I can’t believe this is it,” he breathes, “I’m gonna be a _husband._ That’s ridiculous.”

Jon’s mouth twitches.

“Totally ridiculous,” he agrees whole heartedly, “but you’ve done well. Margaery’s an amazing woman.”

“Yeah, she is,” he replies, just as Jon’s phone starts vibrating on the table. Robb turns it over for him and the word ‘ _Sansa’_ flashes on the screen.

He drags his eyes to Jon, arching a brow.

Jon fakes a smile and his chest feels too tight.

“You gonna answer that?” he asks and if Jon didn’t know any better, he’d _swear_ his voice sounds lower, deep with meaning _._

He swallows past the lump in his throat and Robb’s still looking at him, deadly serious now, and the penny seems to drop and he _knows._

"Did Margaery tell you?”

"I’m not blind, Jon, and you’re not exactly discreet,” Robb rolls his eyes, a disbelieving scoff falling from his lips, “Yeah I got it out of Margaery eventually, but I’ve always known.”

He stares at him, stunned.

“Why didn’t you _say_ anything?”

Robb shrugs.

“Never been good with words,” he grumbles, gruff and guarded and restrained like a Stark, “and I kind of didn’t want to know — I mean, that’s my _little sister._ But I’ve always seen the way you look at her, and the way you protect her, and how her love for you is different.”

Jon shifts in his seat slightly, struggling to understand.

“You’re not mad?”

Robb shrugs again, circling the rim of his beer with a finger.

“Maybe I’m mad you never told me — I guess you had your reasons. But if you mean am I mad that you’re together in the first place? No. Jon, you’re the best man I know and I’ve known you my whole life. I trust you more than anyone and I know you’d never hurt her.”

An ache erupts in Jon’s chest, spreading outwards until he can barely breathe, because this is all he’s ever wanted. To be loved, to be wanted, to find his place in the world and to be _enough_.

Maybe the acceptance isn’t from Sansa, but it’s from someone he loves all the same, and it means everything.

“Thanks, man,” he says, a strange chill sweeping over him when the phone stops ringing, “we’re not together though.”

Robb arches a brow.

“Well, she clearly wants to talk to you,” he points out, gesturing to the blank screen, “and you can’t avoid her forever. I don’t want my best man and Margaery’s maid of honour not speaking to each other. Go. Think of it as my wedding gift.”

“I already got you a gift,” Jon grumbles, but he’s standing (on somewhat shaky) legs anyway.

Robb slaps him on back as he walks outside, his phone in his hand.

With Robb’s blessing in his mind, the realisation that he can’t _function_ without her, and his blood turned to alcohol, he calls Sansa.

She picks up on the second ring.

“Hi.”

He closes his eyes against the sound of her voice, like a punch to the stomach.

“Hey.”

It’s silent for a moment, before she just blurts it out.

“I miss you.”

Just like that, the ache in his chest intensifies.

“Are you drunk?”

It’s Margaery’s bachelorette party too and this is all _depressingly_ predictable and he gives a heavy sigh.

“Yes,” she answers honestly, “but I still miss you.”

He feels his gut stir with irrational anger, because she can’t just _do_ this _._ She can’t keep dragging him from the highest highs to the lowest lows, change her mind and say _no_ but then say she misses him. What she doesn’t understand, what she’s _never_ understood, is every move she makes, every ridiculous word she utters, his entire world depends upon — and it’s _exhausting._

“Don’t say that, Sansa,” he mutters quietly.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not fair.”

“None of this is fair,” she bites back and she sounds just as angry as he is, “you — we had an _agreement._ We understood each other. It was easy.”

“Not for me,” he gives a bitter, humourless laugh, “in the end, it wasn’t easy at all. It was really, really hard. I told you how I feel. That hasn’t changed.”

She’s silent for a moment before he hears her sniff.

“So what, you’re never going to speak to me again?”

He shakes his head because that would be impossible.

“No,” he says gently, “I couldn’t do that. I _wouldn’t_ do that. But you’ve got to give me some time, Sansa. Let me… get over this.”

 _Get over you,_ the words burn unspoken between them.

“Jon,” she whispers his name, breathed on an exhale, and her voice sounds thick with tears, “there’s just so much—” she sighs in frustration, like she can’t get her words out, “—so much I want to say.”

“It’s okay,” he says dully, because he doesn’t want to hear it anyway.

“It’s not,” she whispers, “I never, _ever_ wanted to hurt you. That was the whole point.”

“I know.”

“I broke up with Harry,” she says and it might seem sudden, but really, it’s not sudden at all.

Harry’s not even the _point_ anymore, but _still_ —

He feels relieved.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” he agrees, “but I’m sorry if you’re sad.”

“I’m not sad,” she admits, “you were right… _he_ wasn’t right. I broke up with him that night, straight after… well, you know.”

She’s referencing the night he put it all on the line, the night he told her he wanted her and he loved her and she said no.

“Yeah,” he says simply, emptily.

“I get it, you know?” she says quietly, “I know I keep saying you messed everything up, but I don’t mean that. I _understand_ why you can’t do this anymore. I know that doesn’t mean — well, it doesn’t mean anything really _—_ but I wanted you to know. And it’s not that I didn’t feel what you felt, because I _did._ Of course I did. It’s just — you’re pretty much the only person I’ve ever _really_ wanted and I thought for sure the bottom would drop out. And _god,_ I did my best, you know? And it all went so _wrong_ somehow. I guess I just got obsessed with holding onto you, when you were there the whole time.”

He’s half touched, half frustrated by her speech, and he’s not sure what he can say. 

“And I lost you anyway,” she adds in a whisper, a slight brokenness to her voice.

30 seconds or so pass before he realises he hasn’t said anything. The cold night air lashes at his face like a whip, and Theon’s calling for him to come inside, and his hand tightens around the phone.

She speaks again.

“I didn’t call to hurt you more though, so I’ll go.”

“Sansa…”

“I hope we can be… _friends_ … someday…” she mumbles half-heartedly, “in some capacity.”

The fingers of his other hand twitch and flex at his side and he doesn’t say anything, because they’ll never be friends. They’ll fight and hate each other, maybe not speak for a few months and fuck in moments of weakness, but they’ll never be friends. Maybe they never were.

“I’ll see you at the wedding,” he settles on eventually, faking a smile that she can’t even see.

“Goodbye, Jon.”

He hangs up first, because he’s made a commitment to letting her go, and he needs to see it through.

And _yet—_

As soon as the silence sweeps over him, all he wants to do is call her back.

A few days later, Jon watches his best friend marry the love of his life.

The whole day is beautiful, Margaery having planned everything to perfection, and by the time the priest says _you may kiss the bride,_ Jon has almost forgotten that Sansa’s standing opposite him.

He’s happy for Robb — _truly_ happy — and an hour and too much champagne later, he’s given his best man’s speech and Robb is half-way through his own.

He thanks everyone for coming, cracks a few jokes, then launches into the main part.

“I know it’s traditional for the groom to talk about how much he loves his new wife, how amazing and perfect and beautiful she is,” he turns and glances down at a smiling Margaery, “of course you _are_ all of these things, but I don’t want to talk about that.”

There are some mutters of laughter, and Catelyn’s crying, and Arya’s trying to make Rickon sit still on her lap, and through it all, Jon’s eyes keep being drawn back to Sansa.

“I want to talk about how much you _frustrate_ me,” Robb chuckles, “No-one pushes my buttons the way you do. No-one fights me the way you do. No one makes me feel so passionate and alive and _so much._ I know this won’t always be easy, I wouldn’t want it to be. I know we’ll have to work at it every day and sometimes it’ll be really, really hard. And that’s _good_. Because if it’s easy, you’ve got no reason to try, and if you’ve got no reason to try, you don’t. So Margaery, I love you. I promise to never stop loving you – and I promise to never stop fighting with you. _To you, baby_.”

He tips his champagne glass to her and there’s a collective laugh as instead of lifting her own, she stands up and grabs him, planting a fierce kiss on his lips.

When she pulls back to just look at him, her hand stroking tenderly on the side of his face like they’re the only two people in room, there are tears glittering on her cheeks, and Jon realises he’s never seen her cry before.

As everyone lifts their glass in a toast, he notices that Sansa’s crying too.

Once everyone takes to dancing, Jon lets Arya stand on his feet and steps them around the floor.

He still can’t stop looking at Sansa — because she’s wearing a blush pink bridesmaid’s dress and her hair is curled into this elaborate up do and she looks stunning — but he’s happy and warm and buzzed.

“You’re too big for this now,” he smirks at Arya, because she’s not ten years old anymore.

She rolls her eyes, “I don’t care.”

He holds her closer regardless as the song blends into the next one, and his brows pull into a frown when he sees Sansa speaking to Petyr Baelish on the other side of the dance floor.

Arya follows his line of sight.

“Is it wrong to admit I hate him?” she says, her tone dripping with disgust, “he’s such a fucking creep.”

“No, I’m glad someone said it.”

“He’s totally obsessed with her too,” Arya scoffs, “anyone can see it. Lysa needs to get her head out of her arse.”

Jon smirks, shaking his head slightly.

“Yeah, she does.”

“Go save her,” she orders with an arched brow, but her voice is soft.

Jon blinks before shaking his head again, something like a strangled groan falling from his lips.

“Things are still… awkward between us,” he tries to say.

“You’re Jon and Sansa,” she says, like that _means_ something, “just fucking _go._ She misses you, Jon. She sleeps in that ratty sweatshirt every night.”

“What sweatshirt?”

“That police one,” Arya rolls her eyes and Jon remembers what she’s referring to. The one that has the name of his division emblazoned across the front, the one that must be soft and worn and faded by now. He’d given it to her years ago, back when she was cold, and he’d just never asked for it back. He had no idea she still had it, let alone slept in it.

It’s hard to not look into it.

“Still—” he struggles, “it’s easier if we keep our distance.”

“Easier for who?”

“ _Arya._ ”

 _“Jon,_ ” she drawls sarcastically, that brow still arched, “just go. Talk to her.”

He sighs, knowing this is a battle he’s not going to win. He wonders when her and Margaery decided to gang up on him, and he thinks they’re probably the most annoying, irritating, _best_ people he knows.

He gives her hand a squeeze and moves over to Sansa and Baelish.

“Do you want to dance?” he asks somewhat bluntly, cracking his knuckles.

Sansa looks surprised, her eyes widening slightly, before her gaze slides to Baelish. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she looks relieved, and she gives a soft smile.

“I would love to.”

Petyr’s mouth curves into a smooth smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s clearly fake, and he doesn’t like Jon, which is fine, because Jon doesn’t like him either.

He takes Sansa’s hand and leads her onto the floor.

He notices how she holds her breath when he curls his arm around her waist and drags her to him. It feels strange, touching her again, having her in his arms, where she’s been missing for so long. It’s strange, but _good_ – and he pushes down the sensations.

“I thought you wanted some space,” she says after a couple minutes of silence, her voice sullen and quiet.

“I did,” he admits, “but Arya wasn’t having any of that – and you know I can’t say no to her.”

Sansa smiles.

“You know, all this time we’ve spent apart… and Robb’s speech… it got me thinking…”

Jon swallows, glancing down at her as they gently move to the music.

“Yeah, I saw you were a bit upset.”

“Not upset,” she shakes her head, “a little… _overwhelmed_ maybe. Because he’s right.”

The air feels thinner, pulsing with the weight of everything unsaid.

“About what?”

“About it not being easy,” she elaborates, her voice slightly nervous, “Jon, I’ve always known how I feel about you. That was never the problem. I’ve just spent my whole life being afraid. But Robb’s right. If it’s easy, you’ve got no reason to try, and if you’ve got no reason to try, you don’t.”

She recites it, her eyes slightly glassy, and Jon can’t make sense of this.

He can’t work out what it all means.

“What are you trying to say?”

She takes a breath before she looks at him, her gaze significant. 

“Do you love me?”

He pauses and clenches his jaw, the bluntness of the question flooring him slightly.

“Of course, Sansa,” he says somewhat uneasily, “I’ve always loved you.”

“No, but…” Sansa pauses for a moment and he watches the movement of her throat as she swallows, “are you still… _in_ love with me?”

He sighs heavily, letting her go to take a step back, before he decides there’s no point in lying.

“Yes,” he admits, “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

They stare at each other for a moment, blind to everyone around them.

“Okay,” she says simply and her tone is strange, indecipherable, “Jon?”

“Yeah?”

With her next words, his world, upside down and out of focus since the day she left it, finally slots into place.

“I want to do this. I want to try — if you’ll still have me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, smut and no angst?! Who am I?

Jon thinks about saying no.

He thinks about turning her away and telling her he needs to let her go. He had started on that journey, after-all, and giving into her now would only set him back. He could leave and find a nice girl, one who won’t rip him apart from the inside out, and maybe one day he and Sansa could be friends.

_But—_

She’s looking at him with tears in her eyes and she’s shaking slightly, and he realises he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want the quiet, sensible, patient kind of love another girl could offer him.

He wants Sansa.

He wants _them —_ all of them — messy, desperate and wild.

There’ll never be anyone else for him.

The realisation floors him and it’s almost more than he can bear. It’s too much, too painful, and he takes a step back. She steps forward at the same time, a constant push and pull, a dangerous game, and when she gently takes his face in her hands, he shakes his head.

“Sansa, please don’t…” he murmurs, closing his eyes and jerking his chin back slightly, “not if you don’t mean it.”

She holds fast and looks at him under her lashes.

“I do,” she says, her voice sure and strong, “I mean it, Jon, and I’m sorry.”

Her forehead touches his for a moment before he sinks his fingers in her elaborate up-do, probably messing it up, and pulls back to look at her.

“For what?”

“For saying no, for being so scared,” her cheeks are wet, tear tracks glistening, and people must be looking at them now, but he doesn’t care, “you had faith in us and I… didn’t… and that was so _wrong._ ”

“Tell me you’re sure,” he says one more time, his hands still cradling her face. He wipes the tears from her flushed cheeks with his thumbs.

“I’m sure,” she nods, “I want this.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, “now tell me you love me, because I’ve never heard that before.”

She smiles a watery smile and the words don’t even look difficult this time.

“I love you,” she says without hesitation, “I have from the moment I met you. I’m sorry it took me so long to catch up.”

He kisses her in response and she tastes like Sansa and tears — his or hers, he’s not sure — and there’s a squeal behind them. He breaks the kiss, turning around to see Arya bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Really?” she exclaims, her loudness drawing Robb and Margaery’s attention. The happy couple move over to them, their brows arched in a silent question.

Sansa bites her lip as his arm wraps around her waist and she nods at her sister.

“Really,” she smiles a smile he’s never seen before, blinding and easy, and Arya rushes at them. She throws an arm around each of them, her happiness infectious.

Robb and Margaery grin too, giving them hugs of their own.

“Thank you, Margaery,” Jon says sincerely, because he doesn’t know if he’d be here, standing with everything he’s ever wanted, if she hadn’t pushed him so much, “and congratulations.”

“I’m glad you both finally came to your senses,” she smiles, tucking a piece of Sansa’s hair that he’s ruined behind her ear.

As the night draws to a close, people filtering out and Robb and Margaery left for their honeymoon, Jon and Sansa are still on the dancefloor. He holds her close, the way he’s always wanted to, and kisses her just because he can.

“Take me home,” she whispers eventually and he does.

This time, she stays.

“Do you want a drink? Some wine?” he asks an hour later.

It’s late and moonlight streams through the kitchen window, bathing her in a soft light. She’s leaning against the counter and biting softly into her bottom lip, already swollen from how much he’s kissed her.

She shakes her head softly and he notices how her eyes are shining slightly darker.

“No wine?” he asks, quirking a brow.

He steps towards her until he’s caging her against the counter with his body, his hands resting on the marbled surface either side of her hips.

She shakes her head again, her own hands coming to clutch at the lapels of his jacket. When she speaks, she tugs him so close, her hot breath brushes over his mouth.

“No wine,” she confirms, her voice breathy and low.

Then she kisses him.

Her mouth slants over his desperately, her tongue sweeping inside his mouth, and it’s the kiss he’s been waiting for since they were teenagers. It’s _I love you, I’m sorry_ and _I’ll stay_ all wrapped together in their mouths. 

Her mouth doesn’t disconnect with his as she pushes his jacket off his shoulders, the fabric fluttering to the floor. Her hands then fly to his belt, frantically unbuckling it and tugging it from its loops.

“Off,” she pants between kisses, “get these off.”

He smiles against her mouth, gently curling his hands around her wrists.

“Ssh,” he hushes her, because they don’t have to rush, “we’ve got time.”

She relaxes slightly, like she realises he’s not going to slip through her fingers and vanish into the dark. They’re together – _always –_ and he’s not letting her go again.

She laughs slightly and palms his clothed cock anyway, kissing him and swallowing his moan. She rubs him in small circles, squeezing him slightly, and he grows impossibly hard in his trousers. He kisses her furiously, his tongue licking inside the hot cavern of her mouth, and as she unbuttons him and slips her hand inside to grasp his aching cock, he breaks away from her mouth with a grunt.

He plants hot, open mouthed kisses down the length of her neck, thrusting into her hand. She squeezes and jerks him harder, her thumb swiping over the head and using it as lubricant.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmurs heavily into her ear, his voice thick with emotion.

She kisses him again, gentle and soft.

“I’ve missed you.”

Everything moves quicker then, his hands curling around her ass to lift her. She wraps her long legs around his waist, clinging to him as he walks them blindly to his room. Without his belt, his unbuttoned trousers slip down his hips and he grunts against her mouth, letting them fall down and kicking them out of the way. Sam will probably find them in the hallway in the morning, will pick them up with a huff and a roll of his eyes, and Jon smirks at the thought.

His tongue tangles with hers as his hands find the zipper of her dress at her back, pulling it down. She grinds against him, releasing little moans into his mouth, and her own hands tangle in his hair, pulling it free from its tie.

He kicks his door open and shuts it behind him, dropping her onto his bed. She’s tugging the straps of her dress down her shoulders before she’s even hit the sheets, shimmying out of it until the fabric pools at her waist.

He unbuttons his shirt as she unhooks her bra, leaving just their underwear between them. He takes her knees with both hands and parts them, desire coiling hot in his belly at the sight of the wet fabric sticking to her pussy.

He covers her with his body and she cradles him between her thighs, her hands cupping his face. His mouth slants over hers as his hands go to her breasts, a hand cupping one and the fingers of the other tweaking a nipple. She moans into his mouth, a gasp caught in her throat, and he trails kisses down her neck.

“Jon,” she breathes as his lips close around a nipple, gently tugging it between his teeth. She anchors him to her breast with her fingers wrapped in his dark curls and her hips thrust impatiently.

But he wants to take his time, wants to worship her, because she’s _his_ now. Wholly and completely, in a way she’s never been before. His lips trail wet kisses down her stomach and he mouths at the waistband of her panties, glancing up at her with black eyes.

“Please,” she whispers, her hips arching again, and he kisses her hipbone. Then, he curls his fingers around the waistband and tugs them down her long legs. He parts her thighs again, almost _moans_ at the sight of her bare pussy, glistening and wet for him.

“Love your cunt,” he mumbles against the inside of her thigh, his beard leaving a mark that flares something possessive inside him, “love the noises you make for me… love you…”

He says it because he can – will probably say it too much now, make her sick of it.

 _But_ —

“I love you,” she moans right back, as far gone as he is, and he sighs before licking a hot stripe up her cunt. She practically sobs, her hips jerking into his face, and he smirks against her pussy before slinging an arm over her lower stomach to keep her still. Two fingers of his other hand thrust inside her, sliding in easily, and he moans into her.

“So wet,” he grunts, slightly muffled, before he pulls back to slowly circle her clit with his tongue, “is this all for me?”

“Yes,” she gasps, spreading her legs wider, her fingers weaving into his curls, “it was always for you. Only you.”

He growls his approval, his hands travelling to her thighs to keep her open for him as he begins to eat her out. He licks and sucks mercilessly, his nose bumping against her clit as he spears her with his tongue. He groans into her cunt as she lifts herself up to thrust into his mouth. He slips his hands under her to her arse, rocking her against his face and keeping her fused to his mouth as he shakes his head back and forth. 

He feels her thighs begin to shake around his head and knows what she needs to bring her over the edge. He licks the length of her once before focusing on her clit, two fingers slipping inside her. He fucks her with them, feeling her wetness leak down to his wrist.

“You like that?” he asks roughly, “come on, baby. Come all over my face.”

His words push her over the edge, her orgasm firing through her with a force that makes her shake and him groan into her cunt. He slows down and lets her ride it out, and she shudders in the afterglow.

He wipes his mouth off on the inside of her thigh before she tugs him up, crashing her lips to his in a fierce kiss.

“Fuck me,” she pants, begs, against his mouth, “please — it’s been too long.”

His cock is already leaking, hard and aching and desperate for the same release that had just rocketed through her. He gives himself a few pumps before he lines himself up with her entrance, dripping with her own arousal and his spit.

Then he slides inside her — where he belongs, but doesn’t necessarily _fit_ right now because it’s been months. She moans, locking her legs around him and drawing him deeper inside.

“Harder,” she moans as he pumps at an easy pace, his cock sliding out of her before pushing back in to the hilt, “fuck me harder.”

He growls, gathering her up in his arms as he gives her what she wants.

She feels so good, under him and surrounding him like this, warm and wet, and he rocks into her harder. Her nails dig into his arms and he hisses through his teeth before he kisses her and tugs her bottom lip between his teeth.

“You can’t go again,” he growls.

“I can’t,” she agrees. 

She’s so soft and so good and so his — and he kisses her until she’s breathless. Her hips meet him thrust for thrust, grinding into him, and her thighs begin to shake again.

“Don’t go anymore, Sansa,” he murmurs, softer now, and she cradles his request in the hollow of her throat.

He feels her shiver.

“I won’t.”

“Stay,” he whispers, begs, and his chest aches at the memory of what happened last time he asked.

“I promise,” she says this time.

When his hips snap harder and his eyes start to gloss over, she pulls him back from the brink.

“I’m here,” she whispers, her fingers gently tracing from his cheek down to his jaw, “I’m not going anywhere.”

She comes with a harsh cry, and when he follows, he spills everything into her.

All the pain and heartache, the anger and loneliness, the tears he can never bring himself to cry and all the love he’s harboured all his life… he gives to her. He wants her to have it, to take it from him, to heal him. She’s the only one who can.

This _girl…_ a girl who’s shown him the best and worst of a world that never loved him.

For the first time, he doesn’t feel alone.

Five years later, in a move that completely breaks tradition, Margaery makes the speech at their wedding.

Robb’s best man but he’s happy to step aside, especially for her, and he watches with pride as she makes the guests laugh and cry in equal measures.

She tells them how stubborn and scared Jon and Sansa were, how she wanted to bang their heads together. They laugh at how everyone knew, right from the beginning, and how Sansa was the last. She tries not to make fun of her, of her cautiousness and restraint, but reiterates how important it is to take a risk _—_ because you might lose, but you also might gain everything you ever wanted.

Jon holds her hand the entire time, their fingers entwined, and he kisses the back of her palm as they listen to Margaery tell their story.

Bran can drink now and Baelish isn’t invited and Cat’s actually _smiling_ at him because she finally accepts he makes her daughter happy _—_ and the whole thing is _perfect._

He wishes his mother were here and he hasn’t seen Rhaegar since that night at the restaurant but _still—_

He’s warm and he’s happy and he’s loved. 

He’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks :)


End file.
